Not All That Glitters
by ashlanielle
Summary: Columnist David Smith meets cub reporter Rose Tyler, and sparks fly...just not the good kind. Things escalate further when their editor orders them to partner up. When a seemingly average story takes a sudden and major twist, the duo must work together to expose the truth. They soon discover that not everything is as it appears to be–especially each other.
1. Prologue

**AN: If this story seems familiar, it's because I posted several chapters already. However, because of school and other significant RL issues, I had not updated in over a YEAR! So, I deleted it and am tweaking the chapters. There should be a new chapter posted every other week. I really hope this keeps your interest. I'm excited to write again and I hope that you enjoy where I lead these characters.**

* * *

All was still, the hovering steel pathways vacant, as was the norm. The area was nearly always in a state of abandon, only visited when service and maintenance were deemed an absolute necessity. That was until the entrance flew open, a woman abruptly halting her desperate sprint as she latched onto the door's metal edge. Wild eyes searched as best they could to find some sort of corner or closet, really anything that provided some semblance of protection. Out of her periphery, she was just barely able to make out a small alcove, and immediately she ducked into it, her back making harsh contact with the circuit breaker her haven housed.

Her chest was heaving, her lungs burning, the small intakes of breath barely giving her lungs enough air. Though she was under the cover of darkness, she was acutely aware that she was by no means hidden from danger. The unpredictability of the situation was palpable, practically charging the air. It was impossible to ignore, no matter how desperately she tried. Dark shadows and faint outlines were all her eyes could decipher in the surrounding blackness, the eerie red emission of the emergency exits serving as the only illumination.

Despite the supposed futility of the effort, her tired eyes continued to flit around the area, anxiously searching for any sign of her partner. The longer they remained separated, the more time that agonizingly passed, the more she feared she would never see him again. Never see that cocky smirk or his boyish smile. Never have to deal with his maddening yet addictive presence anymore. Never feel her hand in his. That thought alone threatened to send her into a panic, and in that moment, she decided to step out of her seclusion and search for him. It was a risk, that was irrefutable; but there was no other option. She could not, would not leave him. With extreme caution, she crouched and slowly, carefully moved one foot in front of the other. She ventured into the open expanse, and stepped onto the hovering walkway, trying to avoid the fallen cords and praying the aged and swaying metal wouldn't betray her location.

She was halfway across the catwalk when their pursuer emerged from the shadows directly in front of her; the sparse red lights, which once promised to lead her to sanctuary, were now damning, and casting an eerie halo over her adversary. A gasp escaped her, and in her surprise, she stumbled a few steps backwards, causing her foot to become entangled in one of the piled cords. The man stared at her, his eyes as black as the room around them, his smile predatory. She felt her muscles twitch with the urge to flee, but instantly checked that impulse when she saw something glint in his hand.

He clicked his tongue reprovingly as he approached her slowly, menacingly. "Now, now. You've been so clever 'til this point, let's not spoil your track record by doing something as stupid as running."

Her mind was in a whirl as she tried to formulate some sort of plan; but it was in vain. The scenario before her was clearly evident, and she knew it was the end for her. But even with that knowledge, she continued to train her eyes onto the evil before her, unwilling to give him the sadistic satisfaction of seeing her quake with fear. She'd accepted her fate, and now her last and only hope was that the man who had stayed with her throughout it all had been able to escape, that he was safe. A soft smile played upon her lips at that thought, a peace settling over her, and she saw a look of confusion enter her executioner's eyes.

Their standoff was interrupted by the sudden sound of a door opening, and they both turned to see the source. When she saw it was her partner, her heart leapt and then instantly plummeted at the realization that now he was going to share her fate. Why couldn't he, just this once, listen to her?

Without a thought, she moved towards him. However, one step was all she was allotted before she felt a hand grab ahold of her hair and viciously jerk her back, causing her to yelp in pain. Her body slammed into her assailant, his powerful arm seizing her waist, pressing so tightly into her abdomen that it was a struggle to breathe.

Her partner's eyes widened in fear before narrowing in anger, his jaw locking, and body practically seething with fury. He approached them, his steps determined yet cautious.

"Uh-un-uh," their antagonist warned, his voice unnervingly melodic. "I wouldn't keep on if I were you." His smile widened as he placed the cold barrel of his gun against her temple, slowly grazing it downward across her cheek, almost as if it was some sort of sadistic caress. "It'd be a shame if something happened to our pretty little thing here, wouldn't it? Well, to be fair, something is going to happen to her; but it would be less civilized, and frankly, much messier than I planned if I have to finish it up here."

The young woman's eyes met those of her partner, and she instantly recognized the look she saw in them. He was grasping for something, anything to turn the odds in their favor; but she knew there wasn't anything that could be done. As the look faded and his eyes completely focused on her, she saw the tiniest hint of a smile.

"Jeopardy friendly, aren't ya, Tyler?"

She released a faint, somewhat breathy chuckle. "Can't let ya have all the fun, now can I?"

"Oh you two are just adorable!" their adversary snickered. "Shame to break up such a lovely duo," he sighed insincerely. "Unfortunately, that's not how the game's going to end. So, Smith…," he put his put his lips to her ear, "any last words for our girl?"

Her eyes glassy with unshed tears, Tyler silently begged Smith to run while he still had the chance. She wanted him to be safe. No, it was more than that. She _needed_ him to be safe. His eyes softened as they held her gaze.

"Do you trust me?"

"Always," she affirmed without hesitation, her voice somehow remaining firm despite the emotions overwhelming her.

On hearing her promise, Smith whirled around and slammed the lever beside him, plunging Tyler and the madman towards the glass ceiling below them.


	2. Every Story Has A Beginning

_**AN: So, this chapter picks up roughly two weeks before the Prologue chapter. It's long, but necessary. Please bear with me on this development. This story, although inspired by I Love Trouble, is going to deviate quite a bit. Which means it's more involved, more so than Choosing Realities. If there's some confusion, rest assured that everything will be explained (I can't handle plot holes/inconsistencies). Also, for the sake of the plot I have planned, Donna is Wilf's daughter, and Paige is the granddaughter.**_

* * *

 ** _Nearly Two Weeks Earlier..._**

One only had to spend a mere ten minutes with Wilfred Mott before realizing a fundamental truth—Wilfred Mott was not one for ambiguities. When it came to matters of great importance, matters that possessed a rather weighty significance, his words were clear, precise, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation. And since he always made sure to let others know exactly where they stood, he appreciated having that courtesy returned in kind, especially by individuals having a direct association with him—individuals such as the middle-aged man currently sitting in front of him and weaving what Wilf had to admit was a rather impressively skilled web of vagueness.

Said middle-aged man was the self-assumed prestigious Nathan Blane, and nearly since the beginning of his tenure on _The Centurion_ 's board of executives, he and Wilf had been at considerable odds. Whereas Wilf's primary focus was securing the paper's reputation of moral integrity and searching for the truth hidden within the midst of speculation, Nathan was practically obsessive over numbers and figures—local and national rankings, gross monthly earnings, circulation, online statistics, absolutely anything and everything remotely pertaining to such matters. Even though _The_ _Centurion_ had maintained a solid ranking in New York and the nation's Top 10 for many years, Nathan was very vocal about his dissatisfaction with Wilf's editorship, attempting multiple times over the years to use his influence on the board to undermine and force him out. Despite such diligent efforts, he'd never been successful—much to Wilf's relief. So to have Nathan sitting in his office prattling on incessantly and attempting to give off a causal, friendly air sent up so many red flags that it was nearly blinding.

Finally, and much to Wilf's delight, Nathan finished his useless speech and reclined further in his seat, maintaining eye contact, evidently waiting for a response.

Momentarily breaking away his gaze, Wilf silently sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, batting back his mounting irritation.

"Could you do me a favor, Nate, and just tell me exactly why you're here?" he asked, reluctantly turning his attention back to the man.

Severe annoyance flashed in Nathan's eyes, his shoulders suddenly becoming visibly tense. "Are you telling me that I just sat here for over ten minutes and you didn't hear a single word of what I just said?"

Wilf's eyes gave a mirroring flash of annoyance. "No, I heard you. Thing is, even though you talked an awful lot, you really didn't say anything. So…" he trailed off, hands poised open, cuing Nathan.

Gruffly sighing yet somehow still maintaining the illusion of friendliness, he said, "The buyout happens today at noon. I'm sure you're aware of that. Now, I've met the new owner—Pete Tyler—and he's a real forward thinker, very cutting edge. He has a clear plan for the direction he wants to take this place. Seeing as you've been with the paper for over twenty years, I thought that out of appreciation for your loyalt-…"

"Lemme stop you right there. I may be pushing 65, Nathan, but I'm _nowhere_ near senile," Wilf said firmly, an edge of curtness lacing his words. He never had a tolerance for people lying, especially to his face. "You an' I both know that this isn't about appreciation for me or my work here. You've never had a positive word to say 'bout me in all the time we've known each other. So this…," he gestured over Nathan's person, "is all for show. 'Cause whatever this visit is really about, you wanna come out looking like the good guy."

The words hung in the air for a few moments before Nathan's mask dropped, obvious disdain in his eyes. "Alright, Wilf, you want it straight? Here it is—you're out. Well, as good as out. 'Bout time, too. I thought that you'd have retired or been six feet under by now, but…anyway, back to point. Tyler let us know that once everything's signed and official, he's going to announce several significant changes. Like I said, I've met him personally, and I can guarantee that after everything I've told him, you will definitely be one of those changes. Truth be told, I can't believe the board has allowed you to remain all these years. The way you run things around here…" Nate trailed off, grimacing in distaste.

"You mean having my people actually find out the real story behind things, as opposed to sensationalizing everything like some godforsaken tabloid?"

"Oh for God's sake, Wilf," Nate snapped, rolling his eyes. "Could you, just for once, forego the sanctimonious crap? I'm sick to death of your freakin' holier-than-thou attitude. You want sainthood—feed some orphans. But don't use a major newspaper for your pathetic 'moral crusade.'"

"Reporting what's factual is not waging some sorta Holy War. It's doing my job, Nate."

"Maybe in the Dark Ages, but not nowadays. The media isn't about facts, Wilf. It's all about perception," Nate sneered. "It's about giving people what they want, and what they want is dirt. They want to know every scrummy secret, every skeleton in every closet, every sordid affair—whether it's confirmed or not. Anything to distract them from their pathetically mundane lives. It's like a drug, a craving that's never sated."

Wilf, though a kind, good-natured man, found that he couldn't help the scowl that suddenly marred his features. People such as Nathan Blane were the reason why reputations were ruined, why careers were destroyed, why lives were decimated. His dislike had officially morphed into disgust on seeing Nathan's warped mentality.

"Addicts need rehab," he replied lowly, his eyes narrowed.

A slow, patronizing smirk crept up Nathan's cheek, and he scoffed in derision, shaking his head. "Once an addict, always an addict. You know that, Wilf. So, no…they don't need rehab, they just need a new dealer."

Though he was a man of admirably patient tolerance, Wilf could no longer stomach the repellant man. No, not a man, merely an entity, a presence that incited bile to burn his throat. Rising from his seat, Wilf fixed an unwavering gaze at Nathan.

"I believe it's time for you to leave, Nathan."

Another smirk of condescension appeared as the man stood. "For once I completely agree with you." His eyes flickered to his wristwatch. "You got a good three hours to let everything sink in. You shouldn't need more time than that, right?"

All of his antagonistic jabs proved ineffective as Wilf remained his determined stance, absolutely nothing wavering under the onslaught. Nathan made his way to door and as his hand wrapped around the handle, he looked back at Wilf one last time.

"I'd say 'take care' but…" he trailed off, knowing that his point had been clear, and finally exited.

Wilf quietly stared at the door for a minute or two after its closing. Suddenly feeling every bit of his almost 65 years, he slowly slumped into his aged chair. He propped his elbow on his desk and braced his forehead against his fingers, sighing as the seeds of uncertainty began to take root.

* * *

It was a quarter until one when the elevator doors parted and a young woman exited, coffee carrier in hand. She had no sooner taken three steps before her phone began to ring and she stopped midstride to retrieve it from her bag. Just as her fingers curled around its edges and she began to lift it to her ear, a sudden force rammed into her shoulder, causing the phone to clatter onto the floor.

Whirling her head to the side, her long, dark brown and red ombre hair furiously whipping the air, she was just in time to see the offender hurrying down the hall.

"Dude, _seriously_?!" she hollered out to the man, who continued on his way as if he'd heard nothing at all. Even though his silhouette started to fade from her view, the thoroughly peeved woman narrowed her eyes and growled lowly. Turning her view back to the floor in front of her, she stooped to retrieve her mobile just as a pair of scuffed dress shoes came perilously close to her beloved device. Like a shot, she flung her arm out, roughly hitting the approaching pair of shins. She tilted her head back and glared at the man she'd just halted.

"Dude, you break my phone, I break your foot—we crystal?"

The startled man rapidly blinked at her, silenced by her not-so idle threat. He only lasted under her glowering scrutiny for a few seconds before stepping wide around her and briskly putting distance between them.

"That's what I thought," she snorted amusedly, retrieving her phone and checking the missed call as she meandered to her desk. She was just about return the call, when the sight of multiple cardboard boxes cluttering her area brought her up short. Her brows scrunching in confusion, she slowly inspected them, finding each one empty, poking a few with the tip of her boot.

Turning her focus to the office directly behind her desk, she noticed that it was unusually shut up. Confusion, curiosity, and worry within her began to twist and twirl. Deciding that enough was enough and she didn't have to live in ignorance, she walked the some odd feet to the office and entered the familiar space, her eyes instantly landing on the aged man sitting behind the desk, typing intermittently on his keyboard. Warmth filled his eyes on seeing the young woman, but not before she caught a glimpse of his underlying weariness.

Frowning a tad, took a step towards him. "Gramps, wha-…"

"Hello, sweetheart, I was starting to worry about you," Wilf greeted his granddaughter, unintentionally interrupting her.

"Yeah…sorry 'bout that," she said replied slowly, taking a few more steps forward, "Plumber barely finished up an hour ago. Y'know how they say they'll be there between 8 and 10? Yeah…that's a load a' crap."

"Cheery this morning, aren't you, Paige?" Wilf chuckled at her grumbling. "I take it then that you haven't had any coffee yet today."

Paige raised the drink holder. "Had to settle for a hot and ready replacement because someone," she drawled pointedly, "took the last Keurig cup, which meant that I couldn't get my morning fix—thus explaining the lack of my usual chippery-ness."

Wilf felt a fire flash in his veins at the mention of a 'fix.' The remnants of his earlier conversation with Nate and the full revelation of his despicable true character still lingered in his mind. Forcing that all aside, he cleared his throat and smirked at his feisty granddaughter, though it was far from derisive.

"'Chippery-ness?' Nice to see all of those AP English courses paying off, what with that impressive display of vocabulary."

Pursing her lips and cocking an eyebrow, the nineteen year-old held off her retort and stared appraisingly at her grandfather, anchoring her free hand to her hip as she did so.

"Something's…off…with you. What is it? What's goin' on?"

Rising from his desk chair, Wilf approached her. "One of those mine?" he asked as he reached for the carrier.

Quick as lightening, Paige darted out of his path, pulling the coffees close to her chest.

"Aaat! Don't think so, Gramps. I know deflection when I see it, so you're not getting this dark roasted deliciousness until you come clean about what's bothering you!"

Wilf sighed and briefly closed his eyes, his fingers rubbing his lids for a moment before looking at her once again. "It's nothing, sweetheart. Everything's fine for now. Nothing to worry about."

The words had no sooner left his lips before Paige's eyebrow cocked to an almost unnatural height. "Fine for now…" she parroted disbelievingly. "Which means that 'later' is sooo gonna suck. So how's about you an' me go all proactive and hash it out now? Save ourselves all that 'in the moment' drama?"

"There is nothing to discuss," he maintained, his tone morphing from tired to tense.

While there were times that Paige was incredibly mature for her young age—where she was insightful and wise beyond her nineteen years—now was not one of such moments, which was made quite clear as she rolled her eyes. "Oh, that is such bull! I'm not blind, Gramps. Y-…"

Wilf set his jaw, frustrated not only with her prodding, but her attitude as well. "Let it go, Paige," he insisted, cutting her off, his tone of voice hardening further in displeasure.

She straightened her stance, shoulders back and eyes narrowed in defiance. "Fat chance!"

"Paige Catherine," he replied warningly.

"Grandfather Wilfred," she countered, matching his tone and refusing to back down from the fight. It somewhat bothered her to take such a confrontational attitude with her grandfather, but something was definitely troubling him. The sudden death of her parents nearly 17 years ago left her and Wilf as each other's only family, and therefore protecting him was her top priority. So, without question, she was going to get to the bottom of things.

Wilf maintained his hardened gaze with hers. He did not want to involve Paige in his personal misgivings, to burden her with such things. But as he continued to look upon her, taking in her unwavering stance and the steel resolve in her piercing blue eyes, Wilf couldn't help but soften his own stance. Though there was no physical resemblance, it was in moments such as these that she reminded of him of her mother, his beloved daughter Donna—her fierce loyalty, her passion, her brilliance, and especially, her sass.

Stepping close to him, Paige tenderly placed her hand on his arm. " _Please_ …"

It was that final, earnest plea—spoken in such a soft, childlike tone—that at last caused Wilf to relent. Exhaling a slow, silent breath, his features softened completely, allowing the earlier weariness to once again become visible.

"The buyout's today, and…and there's a good chance that I'll be let go. More than a good chance, if Nathan's to be believed."

The heat of Paige's fury was practically radiating off of her in waves. Those crystal blue eyes of hers ignited and every muscle in her body tensed as she valiantly held onto the last thread of her restraint. Of course she knew of the trouble Nathan had caused her grandfather over the years, heard the workplace gossip he'd diligently tried spread. It wasn't hard to conclude that Nathan had something to do with Wilf's probable termination, and it was that knowledge that finally pushed her off the edge.

Clearing her throat, she shoved the coffee carrier into her grandfather's hands. "Right, then…" she growled, shucking her leather jacket and tossing it onto the small sofa behind her. "Nathan, huh? Well, that shouldn't be to difficult to take care of."

"Paige, stop breathing fire for a moment and tell me just what you're supposedly going to take care of," Wilf instructed. Although he knew the answer, he wasn't overly concerned, knowing how to best handle the situation.

"What do you think?" she asked, adjusting several of the bulkier rings on her fingers, "I'm gonna find that bloody wanker and see if black and blue look good on him!"

"You seriously need to consider cutting back on the amount of time you spend with David. Too many days in a row, and you start talking like him. And, let's be honest—it just sounds incredibly weird, sweetheart."

Paige merely rolled her eyes before pointing a finger onto his chest. "I know what you're doin', sneaky pants! You're trying to distract me from my mission, but it's not gonna work. If that friggin' pompous piece of-…"

"There's nothing that needs taken care of, nothing to fix. It's happening…simple as that."

The resignation in Wilf's voice was like a slap to the face, and Paige's lips parted in shock. "You're just gonna let this happen? Just roll over 'cause they tell you to?!"

Taking a few steps backwards and bracing against his desk, Wilf sighed, his shoulders slouching. "P-…"

"This is your home, Gramps. _Our_ home!" her voice thundered. "I've spent practically my whole life in this place. I lost my first tooth in the Copy Room. Twisted my ankle sliding down the lobby banister and crashing into the wall. Heck, my initials are carved into the floorboard over there," she gestured to the back corner. "And you're just gonna let someone kick us out?"

"I'm pushing 65, sweetheart. At this point, it's basically early retirement."

"You don't do retirement, Gramps! You _barely_ manage sick days. Your two days of convalescence is the whole reason I spent my entire morning sans caffeine and waiting for the plumber to grace me with his presence."

Wilf couldn't help but softly snort in amusement at the truth of her assessment. Though his throat had been raw and his body had ached down to his very bones, he'd been determined to prove that he was perfectly fine and that he was more than capable of fixing their slightly leaking kitchen faucet. Unfortunately, that had somehow resulted in the unintentional removal of the garbage disposal and a scathing look from his granddaughter. The same granddaughter who had an undisputable point—he wasn't made for full-time domesticity. Neither of them was made that way, to be honest. However, it seemed that the decision had been made for them, whether either of were agreeable to it or not.

Wilf was just about to emphasize that fact to her, but was halted by a few brief knocks and the opening of his office door. Both he and Paige turned their attention towards the sound, and were immediately met with the sight of a tall man, an impeccably tailored suit fitting his frame. His posture was perfect, clearly that of a highly professional businessman; yet there was something about him that kept him from being intimidating—at least in that moment.

"Hello," the man greeted. "My apologies for interrupting. Name's Pete Tyler. I was hoping that you and I could speak for a few moments, if you don't mind, Mr. Mott."

The only thing that surprised Wilf and Paige more than the man's British accent was his identity—Pete Tyler, new owner of _The Centurion_. The formerly vocal young woman suddenly had no words, merely widened eyes and a widely gaped mouth. It was only when Paige caught a flicker of mirth in the new owner's eyes that her surprise faded and her fire returned. Quickly schooling her flustered features, she regarded the new owner with a taut, forced smile.

"Right," she said gruffly, picking up her jacket and taking her coffee from the carrier still situated on the desk. "Guess I'll just leave you two to your lil' chat…" She trailed slowly towards the door. "If ya need me, for anythin' at all…I'll just be-…"

Wilf lifted his brow. " _Paige_ …" he drawled, that one word directing her to hurry it along.

"Right…yeah, I got it…I'm leaving…" she assured, finally stepping through the door and pulling it close. Just before it latched, she pushed it open again, popping her head into the room. "But, if you need me…."

With a sigh and two strides, Wilf was at the door and pushing it close. "Yes, thank you, Paige."

"Well, that was rude…" was her muffled response.

A small smirk tugged at the elder man's lips as he listened to his granddaughter mutter and putter around on the other side of the door. With a faint chuckle, he turned back to face Pete Tyler.

"Sorry 'bout that. Paige is-…"

"Please, no worries," Pete assured, waving away his concerns. "It's nothing that I haven't seen before. Besides, my girls could give her a serious run for her money."

Hearing the decider of his career speak with a certain amount of easy informality continued to puzzle Wilf. Based on the rumors circulating and Nate's earlier statements, he had expected Pete Tyler to be rigid, stoic, perhaps even a bit cutthroat. However, that was not the sort of man that was standing before him. And honestly, Tyler's approachableness was putting Wilf off center.

"So, Mr. Tyler," he asked, clearing his throat, "what can I do for you?"

"Do you mind if I sit?" Pete asked, gesturing to one of the open chairs.

"Of course, please!"

Both men took their respective seats and quietly regarded each other. Wilf couldn't help but silently battle the uncertainty that flared within him now that it was his figurative 'judgment hour.' All of this wasn't helped by the fact that Pete Tyler continued to maintain an easy nature, yet still keep an air of authority.

Pete was the first to break the silence. "So, Mr. Mott…"

"Please, call me Wilf."

"Wilf," he acknowledged with a small smile, "I appreciate you taking a moment to speak with me. I know you're a busy man."

"I'm sure it's nothing compared to you, especially after today."

"Yes, well, I'm fairly used to juggling my time. Adding another ball to the mix is just par for the course. But, never minding that," Pete dismissed with a wave of his hand. "I wanted to speak with you about a few matters that have come to my attention over the past few months. I'm not sure how familiar you are with me or the way I handle business, but I make it a top priority to know the ins and outs of anything I take on. And with an acquisition such as The Centurion, I made an even closer, more in-depth inspection. Which means I know all the key players, and you are definitely a key player."

"I suppose so," Wilf acknowledged with a small shrug.

"There's no 'suppose so' about it, Wilf. It's an indisputable fact. And as such, I've learned quite a bit about you and the work you've done here."

 _I'm sure you have,_ Wilf grumbled inwardly.

"Seems you've caused some of the higher-ups to be…displeased…with several of the decisions you've made over the years."

"You'd be right on that, Mr. Tyler. I've tended to ruffle some feathers when it comes to certain subjects."

"Yes," Pete agreed, "something that was also brought to my notice. I'm aware that you have chosen on multiple occasions to refrain from publishing certain articles, despite the fact that they were hot topic items. Quiet a few of them were practically dripping with scandal, but you held off. What exactly was your reasoning behind that? Wasn't it rather foolish to pass on such opportunities?" Pete leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed, crossing his arms as he waited for a response.

"The only thing that would have been foolish would've been to print a load of supposition and rumor. I have never seen the need to run someone into the ground just on the off chance that what was printed would be true. Nothin' good's ever come from shooting first and asking questions later," Wilf maintained resolutely, yet respectfully.

A simple, slight nod of the head was Pete's response. After a minute of silence, he continued, "So…you'd do it all again, just the same? After seeing all the trouble it has brought you, you'd still stick to your guns? Wouldn't change anything to make your position here any easier?"

"With all due respect, Mr. Tyler," Wilf sighed, maintaining complete eye contact, "what sorta man would that make me if I traded in the truth just so I didn't have to deal with a few arrogant prigs? I'd rather have clean conscience than an easy workweek. And if that's not something you're willing to accept, then I'm not the man you want sitting behind this desk."

There was a long silence as Pete Tyler rested his piercing gaze on the elder man. Just as Wilf was about to prod for a definitive answer regarding his future, Pete's features softened and he relaxed his arms, offering a good-natured smile.

"Good, that's just what I wanted to hear."

Blinking rapidly, Wilf couldn't help but do a double take. "I…uh, sorry…what?"

Pete let out a soft snort at the elder man's surprised expression and stuttering. "I take it that wasn't the response you were expecting?"

"You could say that. Especially after the conversation I had this morning informing me there would be significant changes after today. Thought for sure you'd be handing me my walkin' papers."

Wilf watched as Pete's jaw stiffened and eyes narrowed at this new bit of information. It was clear that he was more than a tad upset with that knowledge.

"I was unaware that you were approached this morning, although I'm certain about who it was that spoke with you. Nathan Blane, yes?" he postulated. At the slight nod of Wilf's head, Pete continued, "Yes, there were significant changes made and Nathan Blane was one of them. He was one of several that were made aware that their presence was no longer needed nor welcomed here. Having known the man as long as you have, you can imagine he wasn't too thrilled with that decision."

As the image of Nathan Blane being thrown out of the building by two burly guards played out in his mind, Wilf couldn't help the small satisfied smirk that tugged on the corners of his lips. For nearly six years, Wilf had endured Nathan and his innumerable attempts to intimidate and dispose of him. Naturally it had been a source of anxiety for Wilf, but it wasn't until after hearing that the man was no longer going to be a thorn in his side that Wilf realized just how much strain he'd been under for so many years. It was as if a weight had suddenly been lifted off his shoulders, and it was a most welcome surprise.

But, it was just that—a surprise. After all, Wilf might not have agreed with Nathan's view of the world, but sadly, it was a view that was shared by a greater portion of society. Being aware of this, he couldn't help but ask Pete the question that had been forming in his mind over the past few minutes.

"Why are you keeping me on? Not that I'm not grateful, please don't mistake me on that! I just…well, to be honest, it's…what am I trying to say?" Wilf sighed with frustration, rubbing his forehead. "My choices, they're not exactly the norm for this business. Why would you choose to keep someone who goes against the grain?"

The professional mask remained firmly in place as Pete Tyler mulled over Wilf's inquiry. It was only because he was paying such close attention that Wilf saw a shift of emotion in the younger man's eyes.

Pete cleared his throat before he began his explanation. "I don't come from money. For years I worked my fingers to the bone to give my family the best I could, which was often times just scrambling enough money to keep our flat. It wasn't till after…" he trailed off, clearly affected by some unspoken memory, before pushing it aside, "it wasn't till we immigrated here that all that started to change. Even then, though, it was never about money. It was about my family—making them proud, providing for them… _protecting_ them. Rose and Amy are…" A soft smile graced his lips. "Well, they're my everything."

Wilf nodded, silently giving his understanding. Paige was his only living family, and there wasn't anything he wouldn't do to keep her happy, to keep her safe.

"I've never set out to ruin anyone, no matter my personal feelings; and fortunately, that mentality has been shared by those with whom I do business. However, several years ago, one of the mergers I was involved with developed some complications. One of those complications was a junior partner—James Stone. Without going into a long, drawn out story, let me just say his termination was by no means an easy matter. Out of spite, he gave nearly every paper what he called 'the dirty Tyler details.'

"Unfortunately, much to my horror, I wasn't the Tyler he sank his teeth into. He targeted my daughter. Fed everyone these sordid, completely fabricated accounts of a relationship. They'd only met once at a corporate event, something that could easily have been corroborated had anyone bothered to take the time to do so. Instead, they pounced on my Rose, hounded her. Printed every vile word that Stone could think of to say. It wasn't till after we brought all of Stone's corrupt dealings to light that everyone changed their tune. But that didn't take away the pain and utter embarrassment Rose felt for months afterwards…it was a bloody nightmare..."

A righteous indignation flared within Wilf's bones as he listened to Pete lay out his daughter's past ordeal. He could only imagine what vile slander this James Stone had spread about the young woman. If the barely contained emotion of her father was anything to go by, the poor girl had experienced serious heartache. It was because of accounts such as those that he'd maintained his stance on truth above tabloid.

"So…to answer you directly, Wilf, I kept you because of your integrity. You're one of the main reasons I decided to buy The Centurion. I'd heard about you. Like you said, you are a bit of an oddball," Pete grinned, "You were mentioned in several circles, and I couldn't help but admire a man who refused to prey on people like my daughter had been preyed on. A man like that is worth backing."

There was a stretch of silence as the weight of Pete's words fell on Wilf. The appreciation from this stranger was humbling, and quite honestly, encouraging. It was refreshing to see such humanity—restorative, even.

"Mr. Tyler…I don't know what to say to that other than…thank you."

"You can call me Pete, Wilf. And as far as what to say, your thanks is more than enough. Nothing more is needed." With a sigh, Pete straightened and clapped his hands onto his knees. "Well, I've taken up enough of your time. No doubt you're as swamped as I am."

Rising from his seat, Pete moved to the door, Wilf following. They were just a few steps shy of the door, when something suddenly clicked in Wilf's mind.

"Wait…Rose…? Your daughter's name is Rose? Rose Tyler?"

Pete turned his head and a good-natured smirk emerged. "Was wondering when you'd put that one together."

Wilf's eyes widened and he puffed out a breath. "She…she never said anything. Not once during the whole thing. Didn't even drop a hint."

The smirk morphed into a smile as Pete nodded his head in approval. "Good. Means I raised her right."

A small mirroring smile emerged on Wilf's face, and he shook his head in pleased disbelief. Pete Tyler was a rare breed—a rare breed, indeed.

* * *

While Pete and Wilf were deep in conversation, Paige was sitting in front of her computer, her desk phone pressed tightly to her ear.

"C'mon, Jake…" she cooed to the IT co-ruler. "I know you. That brain of yours is so massive; you could do this in your sleep. I just wanna listen in on what they're sayin'…"

She pursed her lips as she listened to his response. "Legal is such relative term, Jake. Who's really to say what's legal, y'know?"

This time as she listened to his answer she glared into the receiver. "Well, you weren't too worried 'bout that when you an' Mickey hacked into the Marvel Studios mainframe, now were ya? …H-…Hello? …Jake?"

Growling in frustration, Paige slammed the phone down. "Butthead." She knew that she'd blown any chance of persuading Jake to help her, and that once he told Mickey about her comment—and he definitely would—he would refuse to help her, as well. Aggravated but resigned, she scrolled through her music, picking a playlist and putting in an ear-bud. As she began her day's to-do list, Paige caught a glimpse of someone who should have definitely already been there and working approaching her desk.

"Oh, David, been meaning to tell you—I found this app on my phone, it's called _Clock_. It tells you the time no matter where you are, and here's the real trippy part—it has these things called alarms that wake you up so you can get ready and go places—such as work," she quipped, her words dripping with sarcasm.

David Smith gave the young woman a mock glare. "Drink your coffee," he motioned towards the cup with his chin. "You're a bit too moody for my taste."

"And you're a bit too late for mine," she volleyed back, a dark eyebrow raised precariously high. "It's well after 1:00, and you're just now rollin' in. Dude, you do know that you're employed here, yeah?"

"Ah, Paige…a gem, as always," David flashed an amused smirk before taking a sip of his own coffee. "You're like my very own cute an' cuddly cactus. I just can't help but hug you." With a dramatic flourish, he scooped her close with his free arm, playfully shaking her.

"Stop it!" she squawked, wiggling in his embrace.

Chuckling heartily, he let her go, ruffling her hair for good measure.

Huffing, Paige straightened her clothing. "Such a child," she grumbled as she smoothed her mussed hair. However, when she saw her lifelong friend's brilliant, albeit goofy grin, Paige couldn't help but mimic his grin and giggle as well.

"You're such a dork sometimes."

"You should feel privileged; you're the only one who gets to see this side of me."

She rolled her eyes and sat back in her seat. Walking over to vacant desk, David rolled the chair over and sat beside the young woman.

"What's with all the boxes?" he asked, motioning to the mass of cardboard surrounding her.

"I was playing life-sized Jenga. Obviously, I lost," she grinned up at him.

David waited a moment for her to give him a legitimate answer, but she simply maintained her grin as she picked up her mobile. Instead of repeating his question, he merely rolled his eyes. Having known the spunky young woman for nearly ten years, David knew that this was playful avoidance on her part; and Paige was nearly the epitome of stubbornness—she would not cave.

"So...what are you doin' here so late? This is at least…what…the fifth time in the past two weeks? Kinda startin' to become a habit, don't ya think?"

There was a flicker of guilt in his eyes and he tugged a bit on his ear. "I don't think it's been that many times."

Her dark brow arched even higher and her lips quirked to one side as she silently called him out.

"Alright, fine," David sighed. "So I've been late a few times…I can't help it. Joan's got all these publicity events scheduled to promote the book. I can't just back out on them. That's not very responsible, is it?"

"So…," Paige drawled, "in an effort to be responsible, you acted irresponsibly? You do see where that makes absolutely no sense, don't you?"

"Oi! I've never missed a column, have I? I'd say that's rather responsible of me, wouldn't you?" he retorted, offended by her assessment.

"Yeah…I don't see how you've managed that…" she knitted her brow, clearly mulling over something.

"Well, I have," David sniffed, "and that's all that matters."

"Huh…" Paige shook her head, clearing her mind for the time being. "Well, if ya ask me, Joan's just booking all these gigs so she has plenty of excuses to fawn all over you."

David rolled his eyes. "Oh, please…" he scoffed, "she does not fawn all over me."

An unnaturally loud snort sounded from Paige. "Oh, David…my sweet, sweet, completely oblivious David. She's one flirty grin away from begging to birth your babies. An' I betcha anythin' that she already has your name inked on her derriere."

His chin practically hit the floor as he listened to her, completely gobsmacked. This only stirred Paige's amusement, and he watched as she began to shake with barely controlled laughter.

"I-I…I do _not_ flirt with Joan," he spluttered, "nor do I want to. Our relationship is strictly professional."

"Maybe on your end, but I'm tellin' you in no uncertain terms, that chick wants you."

 _Well, thank you for making things incredibly awkward,_ David mentally grumbled.

Shifting uncomfortably, he raked a hand through his hair before clearing his throat and changing the subject. "This chair is quite comfy," he wiggled for emphasis. "Much better than mine."

"Well, that sucks for you, 'cause it's no longer up for grabs. Gramps hired a new reporter a few days ago. I think she starts tomorrow."

David's interest was piqued. "Oh, really? Do y'know anything about her?"

At the prospect of talking about the new hire, Paige began bouncing with excitement. "I didn't get a chance to spend too much time with her…didn't even catch her last name, now that I think about it. But lemme tell ya this: Rose is freaking awesome! We have a lot in common. Funny. Awesome taste in music. Feisty too, from what I can tell. You'll love her."

The limited description of the new hire was already to David's liking. But before he could question Paige further, the door to Wilf's office suddenly opened, and a middle-aged man in a custom-fitted suit emerged, Wilf close behind him.

"Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Wilf," the man said while giving a firm handshake. "There's a few other matters that I'd like to discuss with you, but they can wait till later."

"I look forward to it, Pete."

Offering a smile, Pete nodded and took a few steps over to Paige, his smile morphing into an amused grin.

"It was quite enjoyable meeting you as well, Paige. I look forward to getting to know you better."

Her eyes flittered over to her grandfather, and on seeing his smile and face free of worry lines, her attitude towards the new owner instantly softened.

"Likewise, Boss," she grinned and gave a small salute.

Pete chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. Turning his gaze, he looked squarely at David.

"And you would be David Smith, correct?"

"Uh…yes, that's right." David's eyes widened a bit in confusion, both at the man's identity and at that the stranger knew his name. "Sorry…who are you?"

"This is Mr. Tyler," Wilf introduced. "As of today, he's the new owner."

"Ah!" David nodded in understanding. "Well, pleasure to meet you. Your accent…I take it you're from London as well?"

"Born and raised," Pete confirmed, albeit in a rather rushed manner. "Been in the States a little over 16 years now." His eyes flitted to his wristwatch. "Sorry…I wish I could stay and talk a bit longer, but unfortunately, I have several matters to attend to. But we'll definitely pick this up again soon. So, if you'll excuse me…" Pete nodded his farewell and departed.

When he was out of sight, David swiveled his chair back around and smiled at Wilf.

"Morning!"

Wilf frowned at the young man. "It's 1:30."

"Fine, afternoon. Is it too much to get a proper hello from you lot?" Paige chuckled while David whined.

"Hello," Wilf perfunctorily placated. "Now, stop lollygagging and get to work, son!" He turned and walked back into the seclusion of his office.

"Fine, fine, fine…obviously I'm not allowed to socialize. Pair of slave drivers, you are," David mockingly complained, his dramatics in full swing.

"Y'know that's right," Paige smirked and pantomimed a cracking whip. "Hop to it."

Instead of walking away, like an average, normal human being would, David remained seated in the desk chair and began to roll away.

"Dude! What did I say 'bout the chair?"

"Sorry…What's that? I can't hear you…gotta put my nose to that ole grindstone," he called out, settling behind his desk in his newly pilfered seat and finally putting an end to his procrastination.

* * *

Standing at his living room window, his arm propped against the brick trim, Joshua Daniels took another long gulp from his longneck, staring unfocusedly into the darkening horizon. It had been his third drink in less than two hours, but the alcohol had no effect. There was no dulling of his senses, no hazy humor… _nothing_. His mind was still functioning and it was infuriating.

He hadn't meant for any of this to happen, could never have anticipated such outcomes. It had all started out so innocently; he'd only been trying to help a friend. But it had quickly evolved into something much more, something over which Joshua no longer had control. Maybe he'd never had any control in the first place, maybe it had all been an illusion. The very idea struck a nerve, and in agitated anger, he turned and threw his beer across the room, the bottle shattering and remaining liquid trailing down the wall.

As his thoughts moved to and fro, threatening to drive him to madness, the velvet box housed in his pocket grew heavy and suddenly grounded Joshua to the present. His hand sought the precious object, his fingers finding purchase against its smooth exterior and clutching it tightly, closing his eyes as a sharp pain radiated through his chest. Even though his mind was filled with chaotic turmoil, a sudden unexplained feeling cut through the mental clamor, and Joshua was gripped with the overwhelming need to talk to her, to hear her smile as she spoke. There was no choice in the matter; it was essential.

Plucking his phone up from its place on the coffee table where it had been haphazardly tossed, he unlocked it and dialed her number. After two rings, the call was picked up.

 _"Hey, babe…"_

The sound of her sweet voice instantly warmed his heart, her dulcet tones caressing his tired mind. "Hey, sweetheart. You still at work?"

 _"Just shut down my computer and walking to the elevator as we speak. Good Lord, it was a long day. Have I ever told you stupid people annoy me?"_

The faintest of smiles pulled at the corners of his lips at hearing her frequently repeated complaint. "I think you've mentioned it maybe once or twice."

 _"Well, lemme tell ya, it bears repeating. How can people func-…"_ she stopped herself, sighing _."Never mind, I'm too tired to go into it right now. Maybe after a hot bath, some Thai food, and a big glass of red wine I'll feel like rehashing it. What about you, babe? Anything happen today?"_

Joshua closed his eyes, a swell of emotion hitting him with extreme force, rendering him silent.

 _"Joshua? You okay, baby?"_

The concern and anxiety in her voice did nothing to help his waning resolve. He wanted to tell her everything, to purge his soul—God, did he want to. He knew she could handle it, without a doubt. After all, she'd stood by him through thick and thin, never once wavering. She was undoubtedly his strength. And it was because of those facts that he couldn't do it. He loved her too much to put her anywhere near the situation. No matter how much he needed her, Joshua would _not_ sacrifice her safety for his own selfishness.

Forcing all his warring emotions aside, Joshua garnered all his remaining strength.

"I love you, Georgia Parrish, more than anything in this world or the next. You know that, don't you?" There was a certain amount of desperation in his voice. He had to make sure she knew how much she meant to him, even if it was the last thing he did.

 _"Of course, I do, Josh. I love you too. Always have, always will."_

A calm settled over Joshua as Georgia words filled his heart.

 _"Josh…Tell me what's wrong."_

"Nothin', sweetheart," he insisted. "I'm just tired, is all. Long day for me too."

 _"You want me to come over? I know you're not big on Thai, so I can pick up some dinner from Giorgio's. I just gotta run home an-…"_

"No…no, I'm good. You go home and relax. I'm just gonna head to bed early."

 _"…Alright…Call ya in the morning?"_

"Yeah…Sure."

 _"M'kay…Night, babe. Love you!"_

Joshua could feel the smile in her words, their tenderness, and strangling lump of emotion formed once more, however, he managed to answer her despite it.

"I love you."

A double beep signaled that she'd disconnected. He gripped the velvet box tighter as a sudden dread filled him. No matter how hard he tried to fight it, to deny even the remote possibility, Joshua couldn't help but feel with certainty that he'd spoken to his beloved for the last time.


	3. Light A Match and Watch It Burn

For at least the fifth time in as many minutes, David checked his phone, hoping for a text message. Seeing that once again there was nothing, he looked up and over towards Paige's desk, attempting to make eye contact with her. However, it was all for naught, for Paige was adamantly refusing to acknowledge him in any way.

He'd been trying for the better half of four hours to get her attention, but much to his bafflement, she had snubbed all his efforts, and quite snippily at that. David was used to Paige's teasing and feisty nature, but this was anything but playful. No doubt about it, she was angry with him. After all, Paige was more than merely a good friend; she was, for all intents and purposes, a surrogate little sister. And as this was the case, David was well aware of her mannerisms and moods. However, this current mood left him truly baffled. To be fair, he'd been a little late that morning . . . alright . . . maybe more than a little late, seeing as he hadn't shown till after 1:00. Yet other than ribbing him, as was to be expected, everything appeared fine. But when he'd stopped by again to chat, she'd blown him off, saying that she was busy and putting in her other ear bud, making it abundantly clear that any attempts were unwelcomed and for him to go away.

David wracked his brain trying to understand the sudden shift in the situation. What precisely had he done to upset her? Was it the situation with Joan? He genuinely had been ignorant of the fact that his publicist was so infatuated with him; and now that he was aware of it, he wasn't sure he'd be able to look her in the eye anymore. And surely it couldn't be about the chair that he'd nicked. True, Paige was a bit eccentric at times, but she wasn't ridiculous; and to be upset over a bleeding desk chair was practically the definition of ridiculous.

Sighing in frustration and rubbing the back of his tense neck, David powered off his computer and pushed away from his desk. It was nearing 7:00 P.M. and he had agreed to meet with a few friends for drinks; if he was going to arrive on time, he needed to head out. Deciding to try yet again, David walked over to Paige and leant against her desk, staring directly at her, almost as if attempting to will her into acknowledgment.

"Any chance you're going to stop being so bloody stubborn and just come out and tell me why you've been ignoring me for hours?"

Still not meeting his gaze, Paige clicked the volume up on her phone and remained silent, her fingers furiously typing away on her keyboard. Finally having had enough of her childish behavior, David reached over and pulled out one of her ear buds.

"Will you please just answer me?" he grumbled irritably.

She whirled her head up, glowering, smacking his arm in retaliation. "Are you so frickin' dense that you can't take a hint?"

David felt a flash of fire in his veins at her behavior. It was heated, confrontational, and completely unwarranted. Just as he was about to spout his own brand of aggravation back at her, the door to Wilf's office swung open, and the man himself hurried out.

"Jason!" he called out across the room. "Did you get ahold of anybody?"

The young, sandy haired man groaned loudly and slammed down his desk phone, raking his hands through his hair for the umpteenth. "Nobody," he called back, picking up the phone again and dialing yet another number. "I've tried almost everybody. Kev's wife went into labor last night, so he's out. Mike's phone rang twice before going to voicemail. I called again and it didn't even ring, so I know he's ignoring me. Hilary's in Minneapolis with her folks until next Thursday. Raj is . . . somewhere . . . You want me to keep going? Coz I got more . . ."

"No," Wilf sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I get the picture. What about Rose? I know it's a long shot, but did ya try her?"

"Um . . . the new girl? Yeah, I tried 'bout twenty minutes ago, but hers just went straight to voicemail. I left a message, but I wouldn't bank on her callin' back in time. I'm battin' a thousand here, Boss," Jason grumbled before turning his attention to the phone and speaking inaudibly into the receiver.

With Jason's negative report finished, Wilf groaned inwardly. A report had come over the wire about a raging apartment complex fire with suspected fatalities, and he had absolutely no one to send out to the scene. He was officially up a creek without a paddle. That is, unless . . .

"David," he started, turning to the young columnist and slowly rubbing the back of his neck, "I know it's been a while since you were out in the field, but- . . ."

"Oh don't worry, Gramps . . . No need to ask," Paige interjected quickly. "David's gonna cover it."

"Wait, what?" David asked, his confused gaze bouncing between Paige and Wilf.

Wilf's mind was so preoccupied with the masses of information and tasks to complete that he completely overlooked David's bewilderment and merely accepted Paige's word. "Really?" The relief was clearly evident in his voice. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, especially since it's such short notice. Sweetheart, you'll give him the address, yeah?"

"You bet," she assured him with a smile.

" _What_?" David chimed again, his gaze ultimately settling on Paige, who was still steadfastly refusing to look his way. She was obviously up to something.

"Wonderful," Wilf nodded and then promptly returned to his office, closing the door behind him and effectively ending his participation in any further conversation.

"What just happened? And what did I supposedly agree to?" David growled irritably.

"Oh my God, I've had all I can take of this crap," Paige snapped, jumping up from her chair. Without another word, she grabbed his arm, pulling him into the first vacant office, and slamming the door for its worth.

"What is your bloody problem?" David snapped, directing a fierce glare at the young woman.

"Oh for crap's sake, it's _you_! You're my problem," she countered. "Did you really not put two and two together? 'Cause I wasn't anywhere near subtle about it."

"What did I do? What has you so unbelievably pissed off at me? If this is about me coming into work late, that didn't seem to bother you earli-. . ."

"This has absolutely _nothing_ to do with you showin' up whenever you friggin' feel like it!"

"Then _what_ , Paige?! Because this, this is absolutely bloody ridiculous!" David shouted, completely fed up with the insanity. This behavior was exactly one of the reasons he often referred to her as his little sister—she could be so bloody infuriating!

"I know how you did it!" Paige hissed, glowering at him.

"Did what?"

"I know how you never missed a deadline!"

There was an instant drop of David's stomach as an immediate mixture of dread and guilt filled him. Self-preservation finally took over his mental faculties. Taking a slow gulp, he cleared his throat and did the first thing that came to mind—he played dumb.

"I don- . . ." he started, but was immediately cut off before he could even properly begin.

"Don't you even _dare_ try to deny it!" Paige snapped, angrily shoving a finger at his face. "'Cause I'm not gonna buy whatever B.S. excuse you try an' give me! I'm not stupid, David, so just don't."

Once again guilt washed over David. "Paige . . ."

Chuckling derisively, she shook her head and shoved her hand into her back pocket. Paige pulled out a folded group of papers, opened it, and shoved the wrinkled papers onto his chest with surprising force.

"I didn't even think about it until today when you brought it up . . ." she sighed gruffly, the anger palpable in her hot breath. "You said you'd never missed a deadline. Never. Then I thought more about it and realized that you haven't even been down to the wire. You've submitted it with time to spare. Which made me think—how is that possible? You've been so unpredictable the last few months, practically the definition of flakey. So, just how could you possibly pull all that off?"

David turned his guilty gaze the creased papers in his hand, still rendered silent.

"Oh, have we decided to skip the denial or did you suddenly forget? Well, here, lemme remind you." She pulled the papers out of his hand and harshly put them side by side on the desk. "This," she pointed to the paper on her left, "is almost an exact copy of this," she finished by pointing to the paper on her right. "Nearly _word_ _for word_. You basically plagiarized your own column."

David's eyes flickered up to meet Paige's steely stare. There was nothing he could say to justify his actions, he knew that. All he could do was sigh in defeat, which he did resignedly. Much to his dismay, his action was mimicked by the young woman, whose own sigh was coupled with her resting against the wooden desk, her bottom inadvertently pushing aside several scattered items.

Running a hand through the length of her hair and gathering it together, she twisted it and placed it over her shoulder, playing with the grouped end.

"I'm sorry," was the only response David could quietly muster.

Shaking her head at his apology, Paige sniffed softly and cast her eyes downward. After a brief pause, she began, "I'm not sure what's worse—the fact that you did such a thing, or the fact you tried to lie about it."

Her voice was small and held a clear lining of disappointment. Hearing such a tone weighed down David's heart and caused renewed guilt to flow through him. Taking the few steps over to her, he took a place beside her on the desk, wrapping an arm around the width of her back.

"I've let you down, haven't I?"

Another sniff happened, and his assumption was confirmed by a slight nod of her head. "It's just. . .y'know all you had to do was tell Gramps you couldn't do it or needed a break from things, and he woulda done it, no questions asked. But you didn't even bother trying. You took advantage of him, of his kindness and trust. And he does not deserve that. After all he's done for you, after all the years we've known each other. . . He gets so much crap from so many people, he doesn't need it from someone he views as a son. So yeah, y- . . ." she trailed off.

David's heart was in a vise. The truth of her words was painful, and though he didn't want to hear more about how he failed her, he cared too much for her to let her hold in her feelings.

"Go on. . .tell me," he prodded, gently nudging her closer to him.

"You let me down, David. An' you tryin' to pull one over on Gramps. . . _that_. . .that hurts me."

The slight, hitched sob that punctuated her words was the final straw for David and he pulled her tight to his side. Hearing the normally strong, fiery young woman convey such emotion shamed him.

"Oh, Paige," he kissed the top of her head, "I never meant to do such a thing to either of you. You two are the closest thing I have to family and you mean the world to me, and I. . ." he trailed, sighing a bit wearily.

Why did he resort to recycling his work? Yes, the past several months had been chaotic, that was undeniable; but he was used to chaos. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind was an underlying motive, just beyond his reach. But now was not the time for him to meditate on his reasons. No, he needed to focus on the little sister he had hurt so deeply.

"I honestly don't know what to say other than I'm sorry . . . so sorry."

There was another sniffle and Paige brought her hand to her face, wiping at her eyes. "By the way, I'm not crying. . ."

A small smirk crept up David's cheek. "I didn't say you were. . . Didn't even hint at it."

"Well. . . Just in case you were wondering . . . thought I'd clear that up," she grumbled, wiping at her eyes again.

David chuckled softly. That was Paige—stubborn and strong to the end. His humor reverted to back to solemnity. "Hey. . ."

She turned her focus to him. "What?"

"Forgive me?"

She smiled softly, shaking her head. "You know it," she assured, her words now showing a trace of her usual spunk.

Squeezing her a bit to him, he rubbed her arm affectionately, happy to be on the road to reconciliation.

There was another small silence before Paige spoke once more. "Just so y'know, this doesn't mean I'm not still seriously pissed at you for being such a wanker."

"Oh Paige," David sighed, placing another kiss to the crown of her head, "don't say wanker. You're American, it just sounds strange when you do it."

Her elbow made swift contact with his ribs, and he grunted in slight pain. "Jerk," she grumbled.

"That's better," he chuckled before releasing his hold on her. "Now," he said as he stood and faced her, "I believe you have an address for me. . ."

* * *

As he stepped out of the cab, David took in the horrific site before him. Flames had engulfed the structure, their roar resounding into the night. The intense heat reached his skin, even though he was standing at a safe distance. Sirens wailed in the background, signaling the approaching reinforcements. A mixture of individuals were scattered around the area—former residents, press, hoards of firemen—their chatter and cries nearly drowned out by their surroundings.

Smoke reached David's lungs as he took a breath, rubbing his neck. Memories of covering such scenes filled his mind—memories and their accompanying emotions. He knew he had a job to do, but his reminiscing kept him frozen in place.

"C'mon, pal. . .Outta the way," a gruff voice behind him commanded.

Abruptly pulled from his thoughts, David turned his head toward the voice and was eye to eye with one of the plethora of fireman, a large hose weighing on his shoulder.

"Sorry," David apologized absentmindedly, taking several steps back and not paying any amount of attention to his direction. His back suddenly came into contact with a body, and he felt his foot press against something.

"Oww! Blimey. . .that bloody hurt!" an accented female voice sounded behind him.

Whirling around, he immediately saw a woman bent at the waist and examining her injury, her blonde hair obstructing her face.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you standing there. . . well, of course I didn't see you. I know I can be a bit daft at times, but I wouldn't knowingly trample you. . ."

The stranger giggled—the sound soft and melodic—and straightened her stance, finally allowing David to see her face and immediately halting him mid ramble.

"S'alright," she assured him with a blinding smile. "S'only my foot. I've got another one," she grinned, obviously finding humor in her little joke. "Now if you'd wrecked my heels, then we'd have a serious issue on our hands, and I'd be forced to retaliate with extreme measures."

David grinned back at her, tugging on his ear in surprising and an even more unexpected shyness. It wasn't every day that he was taken with a woman such as her—a young beautiful blonde with a radiant smile. And who just happened to be from London, if her accent was any indication. Something about that, now that he mulled it over, was unusual. Too much to be a coincidence.

His ponderings must have lasted a tad longer than was socially acceptable, because the blonde arched one of her dark brows upward in curiosity.

"Y'alright there, mate?"

"Uh, yeah," David cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yes. Sorry. I must have spaced out for a moment. Paige says I tend to do that at times. Says it's annoying when she's trying to have a conversation with me. Can't say I blame her. Although, in my defense, it's very difficult to follow her at times, and I-. . ." David once again halted his nervous ramble, as a cheeky, amused smirk appeared the blonde's face. "I, uh," he cleared his throat again, "I'm David," he introduced himself, extending his hand in greeting.

"Rose," she responded, accepting his proffered hand and shaking it.

Now knowing her name, pieces clicked into place in David's mind. "Rose? You wouldn't happen to be a new reporter at The Centurion, would you?"

"Uh, yeah," Rose confirmed as she instinctually gripped her purse tighter to her side, the tone in her reply conveying just a hint of a guard. After all, they'd only just met. How could he have known about that recent development?

Suddenly realizing that his specific inquiry could have been unnerving, David quickly made to put her mind at ease. "I'm a columnist there, that's how I heard of you. Paige was regaling me with all your glory. Apparently, she's quite taken with you. I believe the words 'freaking awesome' were used."

The easy smile returned at hearing his explanation, and confirming that he wasn't some sort of stalker. "I dunno 'bout all that," Rose mildly blushed. "But she's something else. I had a blast chatting with her the other day. I'm looking forward to knowing her better."

David's smile widened as a swell of brotherly pride came over him. "She's rather brilliant, if I do say so myself."

The look in Rose's eyes changed, starting as thoughtful and then morphing into something akin to realization and, if David were to flatter himself, a small sliver of disappointment. "So. . .you two are. . .?"

Even though she had left her question open-ended, the inference was clearly understood. His eyes widened with mirth at the mere idea of him in a relationship with his spunky surrogate sister. He was just about to right the false impression, when the sound of screeching tires turned their focus away from each other, recalling both to mind just exactly where they were currently.

The screeching tires belonged to an aged cab, and they had no sooner stopped when the back passenger door flew open and a young, honey haired woman stumbled out and rushed towards the inferno, pushing through the crowd, screaming a name that neither David nor Rose could decipher. A few of the observers tried but failed to stop her. Their warning cries alerted a few of lesser-involved firemen, causing them to turn and block her path. Though she was a small woman, she showed impressive strength as she beat her fists and kicked against their soot stained uniforms, yet the men maintained their stronghold.

Suddenly, there was cracking boom and one of the upper floor windows exploded, smoke and flames rolling out and scattering glass shrapnel. Once again, the restrained woman screamed out a name at the top of her lungs before going limp in the men's burly arms. Standing on either side of her, effectively serving as her crutch, they carefully walked her over to one of the vacant ambulances, allowing the EMTs to take over the distraught woman's care, which in the frenzied bustle involved a blanket and tiny Styrofoam cup of water.

The intensity of the scene that had just transpired transfixed Rose, and she determinedly made her way towards the ambulance. As she neared the woman's side, Rose slowed her stride, hoping that she didn't appear aggressive in any way. Clearly, the woman was in a fragile state.

She was only a few steps away and she couldn't help but notice the slight shaking of the woman's shoulders. The blanket had begun to slide off her small frame, and Rose quickly closed the distance, pulling the stiff material back over her shoulders. The unexpected contact caused the young woman to jerk her head to the side. The grief in her red rimmed, bloodshot green eyes met the genuine concern in Rose's whiskey hued ones.

"I'm sorry," Rose apologized softly. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

There was a vacancy in the woman's countenance, one that couldn't readily be pinpointed. All that Rose could register was that something was. . . missing. It was painful to observe. The woman sniffed and shifted her gaze to the asphalt.

"It's fine," she whispered. "I just didn't expect anyone to come back over here. Everybody's running around, trying to deal wi-. . ." Her words cracked with emotion and she halted her answer.

Though the woman couldn't see it, Rose nodded briefly in silent understanding and acknowledgment.

"I'm Rose, by the way," she introduced herself, taking a seat beside her in the rear of the ambulance.

"Georgia," the woman returned, her gaze still averted.

"'S a lovely name."

Georgia sniffled and shrugged. "My mom's way of keeping her Southern roots, I guess. It's fine, makes no difference to me. But, Jo-. . ." Her voice broke again, but she pushed on, "He loved it."

Carefully determining the best way to navigate through the highly emotionally wrought situation, Rose allowed a small silence hang between them before prodding further.

"You live here, then?"

The silence on Georgia's part continued for a bit longer, but Rose patiently waited for the young woman to find her voice, understanding how such a trauma could effect a person.

The woman shook her head. "No. . . Josh does. . . did. . ." Georgia answered, her voice weakening with each passing word. "No one. . . They c-can't. . . they can't find h-him. . . I can't find him."

The sobs that she had valiantly withheld became too much for her to contain, and Georgia let loose her agonizing grief. Rose, overcome with compassion, put her arm around the trembling woman and pulled her close, allowing Georgia's tears and soot scent to stain her clothes. There were no more questions asked while she wept, only comfort imparted. After several moments, neither were certain of the exact time that actually had passed, Georgia righted her posture and used the irritant material to dry her face.

"Sorry. I don't even know you from Adam and here I just drenched your shirt with tears and snot."

"Please don't apologize. Know me or not, you needed to let that all out. Bugger the rest."

For the first time since their introduction, Georgia turned her eyes to meet Rose's. She let out the faintest of chuckles.

"Your accent. . . Joshua was borderline obsessed with British TV. I think you woulda made his year."

Rose grinned before her expression turned slightly somber. "Joshua is. . . or, rather, was. . . your. . .?"

"Boyfriend," Georgia nodded, twisting the ends of the blanket between her fingers. "But I think he was gonna propose soon. He got really secretive the last couple of weeks. But I don't know, maybe I'm wrong. 'Cause when I talked to him tonight. . . something was. . . off. He just. . . he didn't seem like himself."

"Did he say what was bothering him? Or hint at it?"

"No. . ." Georgia shook her head. "I asked him. Told him I would come over. But he said he'd had a long day at work. That he was tired and gonna call it an early night. Maybe if I just bugged him a little more, just showed up at his place, maybe I. . ."

"You could've been in that blaze too," Rose tried to point out, squeezing her hand.

"Better in there by his side than being out here without him," Georgia countered softly, complete resoluteness to her words.

There was no response that Rose could give to that. By her words, it was evident that Georgia was deeply in love with this Joshua, yet Rose couldn't adequately comprehend the sentiment. She'd never felt that sort of unswerving love for someone, where going down with them was better than going on without them. So how could she rightly chastise her for such a statement?

"Something isn't right," Georgia spoke up suddenly, staring ahead unfocusedly, as if trying to assemble pieces of a puzzle.

"What do you think it was?"

"I dunno," she shrugged before running her hand through her dingy hair. "Maybe it's just me making more outta something than what's there. I just wanna know how this thing happened," she finished, gesturing to the now contained blaze, a few stray tears trailing her cheeks. "I mean, c'mon. It's not like this is the ghetto. So, what? Did someone fall asleep with a cig and the sprinklers not work? The building manager was always on top of things. Everything was always in working order. I don't get it. . . I just. . . don't."

Rose's heart went out to the woman and she squeezed her hand again. "I'll find it out."

A harsh sort of chuckle left Georgia. "How's that?"

"I'm an investigative reporter, it's what I do."

There was a flash of anger in Georgia's eyes as she scooted somewhat away from Rose. "Well, that's just great. I just spent the past several minutes blabbing to a woman who I thought was just a kind stranger, but who actually turns out to be a freaking reporter! So, lemme guess—you wanted to get a leg up on the story and just picked the first pathetic sap you could find to pull info outta them?"

Rose saw the grief stricken woman building with anger and quickly spoke up before she could begin again. "No! Not at all, I swear. I'm not one to stoop to that sorta level, and I most certainly would never take advantage of you like that!"

The tension seemed to ease off as Georgia studied Rose, her eyes making a hard and thorough examination of her sincerity.

"The only reason I mentioned it was 'cause I wanted you to know that I could help you. That I know how to. That's all."

After searching her eyes for one more long moment, Georgia came to the conclusion that Rose could be trusted.

"Alright," she acquiesced with a nod. "Do you have a card or something?"

"Not yet," Rose replied as she began digging through her purse. "But. . .here," she pulled out a pen and small piece of paper, scribbling her set of digits and handing it to Georgia. "This is my number. Call me in the morning after you've gotten some sleep. M'kay?"

"Okay. . ." Georgia agreed, pocketing the paper just as her own mobile sounded. The trembling of her fingers had subsided considerably, allowing her to easily access it. Glancing down at the screen, she looked back up at Rose, a small grimace appearing on her face. "This is, uh. . . this is Josh's mom. She lives in Philly, so she. . . she doesn't know 'bout. . ." her words trailed off as her eyes focused on the diminishing fire. "I need to take this."

"Of course," Rose acknowledged, giving the young woman's hand a final squeeze before rising to her feet and giving her the needed privacy.

As she walked away from the scene, she began to sort and catalogue the details she'd observed and the information inquired. She had only walked a few yards when a recognizable voice called to her.

"You really shouldn't have done that."

Her steps halted. Rose turned towards the voice and saw David closing the distance between them, his hands stuffed in his suit trouser pockets. Her brow furrowed at his words, confused as to his meaning.

"Pardon?"

"What you said to, uh, Georgia was it? Wasn't the best move."

If possible, Rose's brows furrowed closer together and she felt a slow, simmering heat in her veins. But, instead of being forthrightly confrontational, she held her tongue and gave him another opportunity to prove her assumption wrong.

"I said a lotta things to her, so you'll have to be more specific." Her hand slowly made its way to her hip, her stance now challenging.

David's brow quirked briefly, conveying slight annoyance at her altered manner. "You promised her that you'd find out what happened to her boyfriend, how this all started," he gestured to the resolving chaos, "That's not a promise you're likely to keep."

That simmering anger of Rose's was quickly gaining heat. "And just what makes y'think I can't keep it? That's awfully presumptuous of ya to assume I can't follow through. 'Specially since y'don't know anythin' about me or what I can do."

"I may not know you, but that doesn't change the fact that you made thoughtless mistake. It's presumptuous to make promises that you can give her answers. You have no way of guaranteeing that. You're basically giving a traumatized woman false hope."

"I _don't_ make empty promises, and I don't believe in false hope," Rose retorted.

David couldn't help but softly sniff and the smallest of grins tugged at his lips. "While that's a lovely sentiment, and truly it is, it's also unfortunately naïve. Sometimes things happen—tragic things, even—and though you want to, you can't always make things better. There's not always closure. That's life."

Rose felt her jaw tighten as his words fully ignited her fury. "No, that's throwin' in the towel, and viewing the world as a cynical wanker," she seethed. "Y'don't just give up 'cause it's easiest. Ya take a stand. Ya fight for those who need your help. Good, bad, or ugly, you keep going. An' nothin' 'bout that's naïve," she bit out, her offense at his words abundantly evident.

A fury of his own sparked at Rose's verbal attack. "There's no need for you t-. . ."

"Wha'?" she snapped "Call ya out for being an arrogant git?"

"No," David slightly growled. "There's no need for you to be so bloody combative. I was onl-. . ."

"Listen," Rose irritably cut him off again, "I'm done with this. I've got things to do, and none of them involve a back and forth with you. So, I'm gonna leave, and you can go on spreading your cheer by euthanizing puppies or whatever it is y'do in your spare time."

Without another word, Rose swiftly turned on her heel and marched off in a fury, leaving a slack jawed and fuming David in her wake.


	4. Hell Hath No Fury

It was a quarter after 9:00 when Rose finally arrived at her family's brownstone. After handing the cabbie the cash due, she exited the cab and hurriedly climbed the steps, angrily shoving her key into the lock and entering her home. With an unusual ferocity, she slammed the front door, causing the pictures on the wall of the entryway to jostle. Rose was consumed with the frustrations of the last two hours, and therefore didn't care who was home and if they had heard her entrance. Odds were that her father was in a meeting or trying to sort out one or many of the particulars that inevitably came with a new business acquisition. But again, his location didn't sway her behavior in the slightest. Rose was livid, and she didn't care who knew it.

After throwing her keys onto the nearby table with an irritable huff, Rose swiftly turned on her heel and began stomping up the stairs, muttering incoherently under her breath. About halfway up the staircase, she took one hasty step too many and her ankle unexpectedly bent to the side. Stumbling slightly, she briefly cried out in pain.

"Bloody stupid heels!" she growled, yanking the offending shoe off her foot and hurling it up the remaining steps. It hit the wall with a loud and somewhat satisfying thud. Rose was not thinking logically when she attempted to climb the stairs again, this time with only one high heel. Had she been in a rational mindset, she would have realized that such an attempt would probably yield a similar occurrence to her other ankle. This was not the case however, and after a couple more steps, she stumbled again and the remaining shoe immediately joined its mate after bouncing against the wall, as well.

Now free of any hindrances, Rose finally reached the landing and stormed down the hallway. As she blazed into her bedroom, she continued to mutter angrily as she stomped aimlessly around the space. Stray pieces of clothing flew into the air and random shoes were jettisoned against the wall as the mindless rampage continued. So deeply entrenched was she in her blinding anger that Rose failed to see the young redhead standing in the doorway, watching the irrational display of emotion.

"Oi!" she shouted, her loud Scottish accent piercing through the ruckus in progress. "What on God's bloody green earth are ya doin'?"

The unexpected appearance of her cousin halted Rose's tantrum, and she turned to her in acknowledgment. Amy was leaning against the doorframe dressed in her faded, oversized Prisoner Zero band shirt and pajama shorts, her hair messily knotted on top of her head. Even though she was in the process of wiping away her blue facial mask, she maintained her irritated expression. Rose remained silent as her ragged breathing began to slow and the boiling heat within her veins suddenly reduced to a simmer.

"Well?" Amy prompted, her eyes widening in exasperation.

"Nothin'," Rose muttered and began gathering her flung about clothing.

"Oh, really? So you just decided on a whim to act like a ninny an' use the walls for bleedin' target practice?"

"Alright, fine . . . I'm a bit put out."

"Never woulda guessed that one," Amy drawled with clear sarcasm, rolling her eyes at the ridiculous obviousness of the response. "Honestly, Rose, y'know this'll go a lot easier if ya just come out with it."

"Oh for the love of all . . ." Rose groaned irritably. "It's nothing. Will y'just let it go?"

"I'm sorry," Amy pushed off the frame and walked over to her cousin, hand outstretched, "have we met? I'm Amelia Pond, an' I will be winning this argument, thanks very much."

Years of experience led her to the conclusion that it was a futile endeavor to fight, Rose sighed in defeat, her shoulders slouching slightly.

"Ah-ha," Amy grinned in triumph. "I know what that sigh means. Now," she walked over, shoved Rose onto the bed, and sat cross-legged next to her cousin's prone body, "use them big, beautiful lips and start talkin'."

Rose gave a long sigh into her duvet. "I met someone . . ."

"M'kay . . ." Amy replied slowly, confusion lacing her tone. "Isn't that somethin' y'should be excited an' a bit less . . . aggressive 'bout?"

"You'd think that, yeah?"

"What, was he not interested?"

"Yeah. I mean no," Rose shook her head against the bed, exhaling gruffly. "I dunno. Doesn't matter anyhow," she finished through gritted teeth. It didn't matter if that David character was interested in her or not. He was most likely involved with that girl Paige, who was far too young for him in Rose's opinion (that is, if she had opinion on the matter, which of course, she didn't and therefore what did it really matter?) And even if there wasn't a romantic relationship between the two, there was not a chance in Heaven or Hell that Rose would ever get involved with him—never, ever. No matter how much his wild mane enticed her fingers or how undeniably sexy his smile.

Amy's brows merged as she thought about Rose's response, trying to decipher just what was exactly the issue. Suddenly, her eyes widened in understanding as she came reached an obvious conclusion.

"Oh . . . so he's taken. Well, maybe it's n-. . ."

"No, it's not that," she sighed, flipping onto her back.

"So, gay then?" Amy reasoned again.

"No . . ." Rose groaned, swatting Amy with a pair of lace hipsters she still held in her hand. "Stop it. S'not any of that."

Amy playfully swatted in kind. "Then what, Bird? 'Cause I'm quickly losing patience with this game of 20 Questions. So out with it already, before I have to beat it out of ya."

Lolling her head to the side, Rose regarded her cousin's playful smirk with an arched brow and glowering eyes. "Normally I'd say 'Bring it, Raggedy,' but I'm too bloody boiling 'bout what happened tonight to do it."

A widened smirk was Amy's only response as she waited for Rose to finally fess up.

"Right," the blonde sighed in compliance. "So, I got a call from work tonight. My phone had died, an' when it finally charged enough, I got the message 'bout a story that'd just come over the wire. Even though it'd been over a half hour since they'd rang, I decided to go to the address they'd given me, just in case they still needed someone to cover it." Rose's voice grew softer as her sentence ended. On instinct, she moved her hand and found Amy's, interlocking their fingers gently. "It was a fire, a horrid one at that. One of the worst I've seen in years. The entire complex up in flames. People were everywhere—some crying, others just completely in shock."

The young Scot tightened their fingers, squeezing her cousin's hand for a brief moment. Even after all the years that had passed, there was still a flicker of painful grief whenever fire was mentioned in such a context. There was a silent remembrance that they briefly shared. After it had passed, Rose continued with her account of the evening's events.

"So, anyway," she cleared her throat, "there was a young woman that suddenly showed up. She was screaming and crying; the firemen had to hold her back an' everythin'. They ended up putting her in an ambulance so she could calm down. I went over to her, just to talk, y'know. Her name's Georgia, and . . . ah, you shoulda seen her, Amy . . . she was just completely . . . _shattered._ It killed me to see it, an' I . . . well, I couldn't bear the thought of her livin' like that. So I promised her that I'd find out what happened to Joshua, that's the boyfriend."

As Rose was recounting the interaction, Amy listened with rapt attention, seeing the wealth of emotion that event had produced in her cousin. She was just about to comment on the matter, but Rose was not finished. Her expression changed from sorrowful to pure anger.

"An' then that no good, arrogant son of a-. . ."

"Jar!" Amy interjected just in time, causing Rose to huff and roll her eyes at the warning, though she knew that her cousin would hold her to it. When they were in their freshman year of high school, that jar had been one of Pete's methods of punishment for the girls' usage of, shall we say, more colorful language. Their foul mouthed phase had passed rather quickly, but the jar remained, becoming somewhat of a fixture in the household. Juvenile, perhaps, but a fixture nonetheless.

A protest began to form on Rose's lips, but Amy spoke up before she could voice it. "No . . . don't. It's not worth the fiver."

Rose propped herself up on her elbows, scowling. "I'd shove a bleedin' Benjamin in that jar if I had one on me. That blighter is worth every word in the book," she growled, flopping back onto the bed with dramatic flourish.

"Wait, wait, wait," Amy waved her hands in front of her, "just wait. I feel like we've hopscotched all over the bloody place. First, ya say ya met someone. Then ya start tellin' me 'bout a fire an' some girl named Georgia. Then there was a boyfriend. Now all'a sudden we've landed on some bloke that's gonna pay for my next spa day if y'don't watch that mouth of yours." Rose growled lowly as she listened, but Amy chose to ignore it and continued, "So can we pick a topic an' just stick with it?"

Though she blew a hot breath through her flared nostrils, Rose nodded in agreement.

"Right, then," Amy nodded in return. "Let's talk about this bloke that's got smoke comin' out your ears. What did he do that's got your knickers in such a twist?"

"My knickers are _not_ in a twist, Ames!" Rose insisted through pursed lips.

"Bird, you are _literally_ twisting your knickers as we speak," Amy pointed out with a nod of her chin. Confused, Rose looked and saw that the lacey pair of hipsters was twisted in an almost indiscernible knot. She quickly tossed them away and sighed. Memories of their fiery interaction began to replay over and over at an alarming speed until Rose couldn't bear it any longer. She bolted off the bed and onto her feet, resuming her earlier pacing.

"He said I was presumptuous . . . that I couldn't keep my promise to her!"

"What pro-. . ."

"And then, then, he has the bloody nerve to call me naïve! That I shouldn't have promised anythin'. That I was frickin' combative!" Grabbing a heel from off the floor, Rose torpedoed it against the wall.

"Well, that didn't help your case much," Amy chimed wirily. "At least the part 'bout bein' combative."

"This isn't combative, Amy. This is unbelievably _pissed off!"_

"I get that, honestly I do," she assured her. "But ya still 'aven't explained how this happened. You need to start speaking in complete sentences, not just random thoughts. I can't weigh in if I don't understand."

Running a hand through her messed hair, Rose growled lowly, irritated that she had to clarify. "Try an' follow, Raggedy, m'kay? Georgia's boyfriend lived in the complex that caught fire. All signs point to 'im being dead. Georgia said somethin' was going on with him, that he was actin' strange. She doesn't understand how the fire started, how he died, basically, all of it. So, I promised I'd find out what happened. That's when that bloody wanker David decided to swagger over an' give his frickin' opinion—somethin' I never asked for, mind—and criticize me. Thinks he's so impressive, what with his pretty boy looks and supposed journalistic experience."

Amy took a steady breath as she quickly settled on the best approach for her coming words. "D-. . . Do y'think that maybe you shoulda made a . . . I dunno . . . a slightly different promise to this Georgia person?"

Immediately, Rose stopped her hurried pacing and looked at the redhead with a surprised and slightly hurt expression. "Please don't tell me that you actually _agree_ with him."

"No, I don't. I think he was a right git for sayin' all that 'bout you; and believe me, if I'd been there, he'd been limping home. To be honest, I'm rather surprised you didn't take the honor an' do it yourself. But, that's not what I'm talkin' 'bout. I mean, was it the best choice to tell her that you'd give her answers? I know ya did it because you care 'bout people, an' I adore that 'bout you, Bird. It's what makes you, you. But do you, in your heart of hearts, believe that you can really find out the truth?"

Rose turned her gaze to the floor, her eyes darting side to side as she searched her thoughts. She knew Amy wasn't questioning her ability; she'd always shown the utmost faith in her. No, Rose knew that Amy wanted her to really think about her actions. So, Rose did just that. She silently made an examination of her actions, her motives. Finally coming to a conclusion, she turned her focus back to Amy.

"I honestly do, Raggedy," Rose replied with sincerity. "It may not be easy, but that's never stopped me before. An' even if it turns out to be nothin' but a freak accident, at least she'll know it. I wouldn't have promised it otherwise. I don't think I'd ever be able to make a promise like that if I wasn't sure."

A knowing and proud smirk formed along Amy's cheek as she listened to Rose. While she was almost entirely certain that Rose would not allow her pride to influence her, Amy felt it her responsibility to make sure that Rose wasn't letting that or her anger to blind her to the issue of whether or not she would be able to follow through on her word. And knowing her cousin as thoroughly as she did, Amy knew with absolute certainty that Rose would go to the ends of the earth to find the truth.

"Then that's all that matters. Screw what anyone else thinks! 'Specially some wanker y'just met."

As Amy's confidence and encouragement washed over her, Rose felt her fury begin to subside. Her breathing slowed and the heat in her veins began to cool.

"I do have one other question . . ." Amy said slowly, looking down at her hand as she picked at her thumbnail.

Rose furrowed her brow. "What?"

"This bloke—David, was it? You wouldn't happen to, uh . . . fancy him a bit, would you?"

On hearing the question, Rose's eyes widened to the size of saucers. All of a sudden, she barked a harsh laugh and snorted.

"Oh that's rich, Ames!" she chortled again. "What on earth gave ya that idea?"

Amy's eyebrow met her hairline at Rose's reaction—a reaction that was a bit over the top, in her opinion. "Did you or did you not say you found him impressive and attractive?"

 _"No,"_ Rose insisted, "I said _he_ thinks he's so impressive. I never said I did."

"But you did say that he was a pretty boy," Amy pointed out. She wasn't trying to instigate anything or rile her cousin up, but Amy couldn't help but have a niggling suspicion that Rose held _some_ amount of attraction to this David—even if he was a wanker.

"Y'need to clear your ears, Raggedy," Rose scoffed. "I never said I thought he was pretty. He . . . he might be somewhat . . . not unpleasant to look at," she stubbornly admitted through gritted teeth. "But that doesn't mean that I'm gaga over the flippin' twat. He's a pompous know-it-all and definitely not my type. Not even a tiny bit. Now," she walked over to her dresser and pulled out a pair of night clothes, "if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna take a shower an' go to bed. I have work in the morning."

Amy watched as Rose strutted out the door. Suddenly she popped her head through the door frame, and narrowed her focus on the redhead.

"Just to be perfectly clear, because I can practically hear your mind screaming otherwise, there is nothin' and _never will_ be anythin' between me and David. Got it?"

Giving a small smile, Amy saluted. "Got it."

Satisfied, Rose nodded and headed to the bathroom. Amy slid off the bed and headed towards her room. As she did, she couldn't help but shake her head and smirk at Rose's reaction.

 _The lady doth protest too much . . ._

* * *

Paige Barrow took a large bite out of her cherry danish while attempting to effectively type one handed, her eyes glued to the screen. She was so focused on her typing that she didn't notice that her hand was tilting the danish precariously to the side. By the time it did catch her notice, one of the jellied cherries had escaped the center and plopped onto the surface of her phone.

Paige groaned as she stared down at the sticky mess. Dropping the half-eaten pastry onto it's wrapper, she sighed, reaching for one of the paper napkins on her desk. A sudden thought stopped her hand mid-air, Flitting her eyes around the bullpen to ensure no one was watching, Paige picked up her phone and darted her tongue out, lapping up the jellied goodness with one swift swipe.

An unexpected chuckle caused Paige to snap her head towards its source. Standing before her with a wide grin, balancing a small cardboard box on her hip and a coffee cup in her other hand, was a very familiar blonde.

"Rose! Hey!" Paige dropped her phone onto the desk and quickly rushed to greet the new hire. She automatically went to hug her, but stopped when she saw the blonde's hands were occupied. "Here," she grabbed the box Rose was balancing, "Lemme help."

"Thanks," Rose said, following the young woman over to what was now her desk.

Paige sat the box down on the clear surface and turned back around, wide-eyed and smiling. "Now that you're no longer a pack mule . . ." She trailed off as she hurried forward and grasped Rose in a tight, friendly embrace.

Rose couldn't help but chuckle at the young woman's enthusiasm. She returned the embrace, careful not to spill the coffee she still held in her hand.

"It's good to see you again, Paige."

She pulled back from the embrace. "You too, girlie! I can't tell ya how friggin' excited I am that you're my new desk neighbor. The last person who sat there must have been a human test subject for chemical warfare. Dear God did his cologne reek. I still have a gas mask in my desk drawer. Y'know . . . just in case."

Another round of laughter sounded from Rose as she listened to the spunky woman while unloading her box of belongings. There wasn't much there, merely a few knick knacks to make the space feel more hers. The sound of rolling wheels caused Rose to flitter her eyes to the side and she saw Paige approaching her. She stopped just at the side of the desk and propped her legs onto the chair, resting her forearms on her knees. Paige was practically radiating giddiness, smiling widely as she watched Rose disperse her items.

"So . . ." she began, "you excited 'bout workin' here? 'Cause ya should be. We pretty much define awesomeness, if I do say so myself."

Dropping the now empty box to the floor, Rose sat down into the waiting desk chair and sighed silently. "Yeah, 'course I'm excited. But . . . if I'm bein' completely honest, I'm a bit more nervous than excited. I mean, this place is a major news source. S' a bit daunting."

"Oh please," Paige waved the words away. "You'll do great! I've got no doubts. 'Sides, it's not like this is your first gig."

There was a silence as Rose diverted her gaze. Paige's brows shot upward in pure surprise.

"Seriously? This is your first?" Rose nodded her head in affirmation, but Paige countered with a shake of hers. "Nah, you're having me on. I've read your stuff. There's no way that's the work of a rookie."

"You've read my work?" Rose inquired with an arched brow.

"Uh," Paige replied sheepishly, fiddling with the end of her braid, "I _may_ have sorta kinda possibly found some of your articles on Gramps' desk . . . and I may have taken a peek or two."

Rose snorted in amusement at the younger woman's roundabout admission. "Well, thanks for the good opinion. Means a lot."

"Well, it's true! You rock. And buh-leeve me, I do not hand out compliments like that willy-nilly! I'm straight between the eyes when it comes to things. David says I have to tone it down 'cause apparently not everyone can handle my brand of honesty, and I guess I made someone cry last week. But, in my defense, _no one_ looks good in sequined spandex."

The mention of David caused heat to flash in Rose's veins. She wiggled in her seat as she felt that familiar aggravation reemerge. As she did so, she noticed that something was not right.

"Is this the same chair that was here last time? It feels odd."

"No, it's not the same chair," Paige answered, frowning. "David plopped his lazy butt down there yesterday and decided it was better than the one he has. I told him it was yours, but he swiped it anyway."

To a rational, objective individual, a desk chair was just a desk chair—hardly anything that would incite a riot. But, in light of their rather terse interchange the previous night, it was just another strike against the male irritant.

A dark brow arched almost to her hairline and there was an imperceptible sparking in her hazel eyes. "Did he, now? Well," Rose stood up, "let's fix that, shall we?" Without another word, she stalked off further into the bullpen, searching the name plates till she found the right one. Even though she didn't know David's last name, the picture of him, Paige, and Wilf that was stationed on the desk didn't make it a difficult deduction. Filled with a certain level of juvenility and irrationality, Rose rolled the chair to its rightful place and returned the inferior one back to David. With a highly self-satisfied smirk, Rose plopped down onto her reacquired property and wriggled in contentment.

"Well . . . that's one way to do it," Paige quipped, mirroring the blonde's playful smirk.

"I found it effective," Rose grinned. Picking up her coffee cup, she took a long sip of the brew. Now that she'd been in the young woman's company for a while, Rose was reminded of her initial interaction with David, and suddenly felt the need to satisfy her curiosity. "So, how long have you and David been together?"

Paige stared a long, hard time at Rose, barely blinking as the question settled on her. Out of nowhere, she began to giggle, a giggle which in a matter of seconds had morphed into full-on cackling with the occasional snort for emphasis. "M-me . . . and . . . David . . . David and I, together? As in a couple? Oh dear God, no. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No." She snorted loudly again, _"No!"_

"Wow . . . that's a very definite response." Rose was slightly taken aback by Paige's borderline hysterical reaction.

"Oh, trust me . . . it doesn't get much more definite than that," Paige continued to giggle. "I've known David for nearly half my life. He's basically my older brother. So the idea of me and him in any kind of romantic context is not only friggin' _hysterical,_ but it kinda makes wanna vomit in my mouth a little bit."

"Well, that's . . . good to know," Rose said slowly, taking another sip of coffee.

"Oh, yeah?" Paige grinned, "Lookin' to make a love connection?"

The words had no sooner left Paige's lips before Rose choked on her hot beverage and began spluttering as she attempted to compose herself. Wiping away the coffee that lined her bottom lip, Rose took a much needed breath before turning her wide eyes to the highly amused young woman.

"A-Absolutely not," she managed to sputter. "No. No. No. That's not what I meant at _all!"_

"Woah, chill out, Rose," Paige teased. "It's not a big deal. I can totally introduce you two. 'Sides, I could tell his curiosity about you was piqued when I practically went all fangirl yesterday. Wanted me to tell 'im all I knew."

Of its own volition, one of Rose's dark brows skyrocketed on hearing about David's interest. She quickly shrugged it off. So what if he was interested, it meant nothing to her.

"I don't-. . ."

"Oh, c'mon," Paige interjected, grinning even wider and twirling her seat around in a circle. "Based on the unofficial poll the chicks in this building have goin' on, he's hot. I think he's ranks somewhere between _'Sweet_ _Lord'_ and _'Daaaaaannngg!'_ on their hotness scale."

Rose snorted in amusement at the ranking, but shook her head adamantly. "Honestly, Paige, that's really, really not necessary!"

"Agh," Paige groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "C'mon, why don't you wanna meet him?"

Her lips parted to speak, but it wasn't Rose who answered.

"Because we've already met."

Both Rose and Paige whirled their heads around to see the man himself standing before them. Paige smiled warmly at him, clearly happy to be in his presence. However, Rose was not so keen on his arrival. The heat she'd felt the prior night while around him began to simmer in her veins once again. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs and arms as she critically eyed the man. He was once again in a tailored suit; however, this one fit a tad more snug than its predecessor. His brown locks were more than a bit manic, as if he'd just run his hands through it. Rose rolled her eyes at the thought. Clearly it was a gimmick for the benefit of the female population.

The rolled eyes and irritated expression did not go unnoticed by David, and there was a small furrowing of his brow. All he'd done was made a statement of fact, and here she was already needlessly putout with him. Lord was this woman moody.

Paige looked between them with slight yet unhidden confusion. "You guys already met? Wh-. . . How?"

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, David rolled back on his heels. "Oh, last night, at that fire Wilf sent me out on. Literally stumbled into her. It was quite the, uh . . ." he blew out a breath, "experience, wouldn't you say, Rose?" he finished with a smirk.

She bit the inside of her cheek and blew a silent breath through her nostrils. Reining back her temper, she quirked an eyebrow and gave him a snarky smile. "That would be my _lovely sentiment_ as well," she said evenly, emphasizing the words he'd used with her the night before and knowing the reference would not be lost on him.

Her assessment had been correct, for David _did_ understand the reference and immediately felt the grating rush of irritation he had last time in her presence. Less than ten words and she was already under his skin.

"Well," he drawled, "I didn't want to be _presumptuous_ and assume that I knew your thoughts on our meeting." David punctuated his words with a rivaling snarky smile.

His comeback was a lit match, and he had just thrown it on the volatile liquid anger flowing through her veins. Sparks of anger illuminated her eyes like streaks of lightening, and images of stringing him up by his necktie filled her mind.

"Trust me, it was as enjoyable for me as it was for you."

Though her words lacked any frank hostility, there was definitely an underlying trace of acidity that would be undiscernible to the untrained eye. David and Rose were so absorbed in their battle of inside references, barbs, and insults that neither noticed Paige watching them with unveiled fascination. The whole scene was better than any film she'd seen in ages. All that was missing was a giant bag of popcorn and some Twizzlers.

Rose and David remained at a verbal impasse, both running through scenarios on how to gain the upper hand. Movement in the distance caught Rose's attention, and she turned her gaze to Paige.

"Back in a mo'," Rose said with a smile before standing, narrowing her whiskey eyes at David, and walking away towards the elevators.

Furrowing his brow even further, David watched as Rose walked off, his eyes following her closely. A sudden clearing of the throat caused him to turn his focus from Rose and onto the smirking teenager twisting in her chair.

"Don't look at me like that," he grumbled.

"Like what?" Paige inquired with pseudo innocence.

"Like you know something no one else does."

"Do I?"

"No," David replied firmly, "you don't, because there's nothing to know other than Rose and I have met."

"Clearly," Paige muttered. "Hey David, can ya hand me those scissors on my desk?"

"Why?" he frowned in confusion, yet reaching for them anyway.

"The tension in here's so thick, I thought I-. . ."

Knowing how she was going to end the sentence, David abandoned the scissors and returned to his original position, playfully pushing her head and effectively halting her finish.

"Shut it, Paige."

He turned his attention back to tracking Rose, and noticed that she was standing close to the elevators and chatting amicably with another recent acquaintance—Pete Tyler. David narrowed his eyes in study as he watched the two's interaction become more animated. For an inexplicable reason, it bothered him to see her act so familiar with the man. More probable than not, it was because he was the new owner and she was an employee; things between them needed to be more professional. At least, that's what he told himself.

"Don't they seem awfully chummy?" he questioned with forced nonchalance, jutting his chin in their direction.

Paige looked at the scene. "Eh," she shrugged. "You're that way with me and Gramps. I don't see how it's all that different."

"The difference is that we're practically family, which makes it all well an' good. But that," he nodded towards the now embracing pair, "is a bit too familiar for employer and employee."

"Typically," Wilf said, suddenly appearing and startling both of them. "But not for them."

"Oh, really?" David sniffed, crossing his arms in front of chest. "An' how's that, Wilf?"

"Because her name's Rose Tyler," Wilf explained, smiling at the young man's ignorance, "and she's his daughter."


	5. Stirring the Pot

_Daughter . . ._

That one word came barreling against David, affecting him like a kickback from a bomb. Every molecule in the atmosphere of his mind shifted, hurling him off balance and flat on his back. There was a hollowness where functionality had just vacated, bordered by a high reverberating pitch. The implications of this new information were just out of David's reach, resting on the outskirts of his mind, refusing to allow him access. For what seemed an eternity, David stood there stupefied, unable to do anything but stare with a slackened jaw at the young blonde still conversing near the elevators.

That shocking revelation had put him so near catatonia that David didn't register the small feminine fingers that slowly crept up in front of his face; that is, until they merged together in a harsh, jolting snap. That action instantly yanked him back to the present, and David blinked rapidly as he tried to re-establish his surroundings. When things finally came into focus, he was greeted by a smug smirk, its highly amused owner still twirling in her desk chair.

"Look it, Gramps," Paige grinned. "David's gone a full two minutes without a single word. I'm pretty sure he's having an aneurysm."

Wilf chuckled lowly, shaking his head in amusement as David lightly glowered at the young woman. "I'm fully capable of remaining silent when I so choose, Paige. And seeing as I'm currently trying to wrap my head around this new bit of information, I think it's perfectly understandable for me to be at a loss for words."

"Oh, please. . ." Paige rolled her eyes at the slightly dramatic response. "It's really not that hard to follow."

"I just don't understand it," David ruffled the back of his head in frustration. "How can she be his daughter?"

Both Paige and Wilf looked at David with no small amount of incredulity, but it was Paige who spoke up.

"Well, David, sometimes when a man and a woman are together and really, really love each other, they-. . ."

Glowering at her yet again, this time a bit more intensely, David reached over and flicked her forehead.

"I'm perfectly aware of the _how_ , Paige. I don't need a biology lesson, ta!"

Paige wrinkled her nose and roughly rubbed the reddening spot on her forehead. "Well, I was gonna say she was the result of too much tequila and bad lighting, but your question was so incredibly idiotic that I thought you honestly didn't know the mechanics of it all. Didn't want to confuse you with the sarcasm."

Every muscle in David's body geared up for an equally snarky response, but was halted before any words could be formed.

"Okay, that's enough, Paige. Let's give the comebacks a rest, yeah?" Wilf mildly reprimanded his granddaughter before turning his attention to the young man. "Alright, David, do you mind explaining what the real issue is?"

"Really, Wilf?" David questioned, his brow arched. " _The Centurion_ is a major news source, and our new owner has his daughter working for him. You're honestly telling me that you don't see anything even remotely nepotistic with this situation?"

Slowly, Wilf turned his head, looking from the Tylers to David. He focused again on the young man squarely, his eyes questioning. Having met with Pete Tyler and recently benefiting from his moral integrity, Wilf was not pleased with David's prejudgment.

"And you're basing this on what—something you've actually witnessed or some preconceived notion?"

David tugged on his ear as his mind worked to make a response, but all he could manage was a shifting of the eyes and a slowly puffed out breath. He couldn't offer a rebuttal because there wasn't a legitimate one to give. The younger man's silence inadvertently confirmed Wilf's suspicions, a confirmation that prompted him to narrow his gaze.

"That's what I thought. I may have just met Pete Tyler, but I can already see that he's not that sorta man. In fact, if it wasn't for his surprisingly unexpected moral compass, I'd be out of a job. So how about next time you make a statement, you have some actual proof to back it up. You know better than to come to me with anything less than that."

Hearing the fierceness in Wilf's rebuke, David mutely nodded his head in understanding. With a curt nod, Wilf turned from the two younger ones and went back into his office. David stared after his boss, swallowing harshly in the wake of his chastisement. Whether or not he felt justified in the slightly cynical opinion of Rose Tyler—and by extension, her father—David didn't like displeasing the man who'd treated him like a son.

"What's your glitch, dude?"

Paige's voice brought him out of his stupor and he frowned in confusion at her question.

"What?"

She crossed her arms, raising a brow in appraisal. "Your glitch. Your malfunction. The mental hiccup that's got you acting like more of a teenage girl than me."

"I've had my limit with the insults, Paige," David said irritably. "So tread lightly."

"I'm not tryin' to insult you, David. But c'mon. . . ya just sorta pissed off Gramps because you're being all whiny about nothing. So, spill."

With a sigh, David said, "I'm not being whiny. I just see where the situation has the potential to go south."

Paige rolled her eyes at the explanation. "Just 'cause it can, doesn't mean it will. I mean, I have the 'potential' to get _Big Momma_ tattooed across my forehead, but it doesn't mean I'm gonna do it."

David opened his mouth to reply but found that he had no counterpoint; her reasoning was oddly sound.

"Is there somethin' else goin' on?" she questioned with a furrowed brow. "You're being all weird."

Rubbing the back of his neck, David sighed. "No, it's nothing. I'm alright."

Paige pursed her lips to the side, not wholly believing his response. Despite that doubt, she said no more about it and changed the subject. Out of the corner of his eye, David could see her talking animatedly, but he didn't hear any of it. He was too busy mulling over bits and pieces of the last 24 hours, specifically, the parts that had to do with one Rose Tyler.

What had begun as an amicable interaction had quickly turned into heated bickering, and all within the span of twenty minutes. He'd merely tried to offer some sage advice, but she clearly had no desire to listen to him. Instead, he found out that behind that brilliant smile lied a sharp, biting tongue. It was not something David had expected when they initially met. Far from it, actually. The feisty blonde had immediately caught his attention—how could she not? Rose was an _incredibly_ attrac-. . .

His eyes widening of their own accord at where his thoughts had unexpectedly and firstly turned, David cleared his throat, which had suddenly tightened and felt very dry.

 _Must be from all that smoke last night. . ._

Refocusing his thoughts back to their original purpose, David began going over their interaction once more. He honestly hadn't meant to eavesdrop on Rose's conversation with Georgia, truly he hadn't. He'd even waited several minutes, expecting their conversation to be brief. But as he'd approached the two of them, he couldn't avoid hearing their exchange, and more to the point, Rose's promise to the clearly devastated woman. As soon as the words had been said, David had sighed and shook his head at the foolishness of it.

Her desire to help was admirable, and her passion was evident by the way she expressed herself, by the fierce way she went toe to toe with him. David found Rose to be so captivating and so. . . so. . . _so bloody_ infuriating! Her innate stubbornness and ability to twist his words was enough to literally make him itch, proven by the fact that David was unconsciously scratching his neck as he thought of her.

". . .and since you've heard absolutely nothing that I've said for the past ten minutes, I hereby release you from captivity."

Somehow these words snapped David from his silent contemplations, and his focus turned back to the young woman who had finally realized she'd been having a one-sided conversation the entire time.

"Sorry, Paige," he apologized with a sheepish wince, feeling guilty about ignoring his little sister.

She lightly shrugged her shoulders, offering a wide smile. "No big. I should quit jabbering and you should get back to writing. And when I say, 'back to,' what I really mean is, 'actually start.'"

With a shake of his head and a return of her smile, David placed a quick kiss on the top of her head before making his way to his desk.

He was staring at her again; Rose could sense it with a certainty, and it was bloody annoying. Ever since she'd returned from her brief conversation with her father, she'd noticed that David remained at his own desk, and thankfully, had refrained from making another unwanted visit to her area. But apparently, Rose decided, he didn't have to be physically near her to irritate her.

Sensing that his gaze was still firmly fixated on her, Rose yanked her desk phone off its cradle and dialed a four-digit extension. Five desks away there was a sudden ring. After two rings, the call was picked up, and Rose spoke first.

"Do you have some sort of condition?"

 _"What?"_

"A condition," Rose repeated. "An illness. Some sort of infirmity that compels you to stare at me for minutes on end?"

 _"Funny,"_ David scoffed, _"I could ask the same of you."_

"Excuse me?" she huffed. "I'm not the one who's been staring!"

 _"Oh, really? So are someone else's eyeballs living in your head? Or do you have another explanation for the set of eyes that have been keeping tabs on me for the last two hours?"_

"For your information," Rose said pointedly, "the only reason I've even bothered lookin' your way is because you won't stop staring at me! It ridiculous! I can practically feel you breathing down my neck."

 _"Lemme assure you, I have no desire to be anywhere near you, let alone your neck,"_ David spat.

"Oh, such a loss there," Rose quipped smartly. "Dunno how I'm gonna recover from that disappointment."

There was a slight pause on the receiving end before David growled indiscernibly and abruptly ended the call. Rose grinned, silently rejoicing in her perceived triumph, and twisting her chair happily. No more than thirty seconds passed before her phone began to ring. Narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips, Rose toyed with the idea of ignoring it, knowing full well just who was on the other end. However, the desire to continue having the upper hand was a strong one, and therefore, Rose answered the call.

"What?"

 _"I seem to be missing something."_

"Well, if you're referring to your masculinity, I've not seen it," she quipped, smirking in amusement.

 _"Oh please,"_ David laughingly scoffed. _"As if you'd know what to look for."_

Fire flashed in her veins at his immediate and clever comeback; he wasn't supposed to one up her. "Was there an actual reason for your call? Or were you simply giving me a status update?"

 _"Is my chair comfortable enough for you?"_

"No, it wasn't. That's why I returned it. My chair, on the other hand, is quite heavenly." She drove home her point by wiggling in her seat and leaning backward.

 _"Oh, look—yet, another thing you've got the wrong end of. The chair your perky little bum is currently occupying happens to belong to me. I claimed it yesterday before you decided to grace us with your presence."_

"First off, all discussion of my bum is off-limits," Rose snapped. "Second, when I got the job, I got the desk and all that's associated with it. Including this posture-pedic perfection."

David's flaring nostrils could practically be heard over the line. How was this woman able to work him into such an irrational frenzy?

 _"You are, without a doubt, the most. . . most. . . "_

A small voice, one that oddly enough sounded like Paige, whispered to David that he needed to watch himself. That he needed to take a breath, to think before he spoke.

"Oh, spit it out, Smith," Rose smirked at his stuttering.

Sod thinking it through, he smarted to the inner voice.

 _"Believe me, Tyler, I would; but I'd hate to have you rush off in a girly fit. Don't want to upset Daddy Dearest."_

Whirling her chair around, the phone still attached to her ear, Rose's blazing eyes sought out the offender across the room. When they met, both could see that the other was boiling with anger, their breathing slightly hurried. It was evident that David was not about to back down, and Rose was infuriated to find that her mind was a complete blank.

"Wanker," she growled into the receiver before slamming it down onto the cradle and whirling back to face her computer, her hair flying around her shoulders. Furious fingers began harshly and aimlessly typing away at the keyboard as Rose fumed over David's words.

 _Girly fit?_

 _Daddy Dearest?_

Where did he bloody get off? She wasn't some sort of frilly, hormonal "daddy's girl." She didn't need nor want her father fighting her battles. Rose was a woman in her own right, and Pete Tyler was not the sort to use his influence to spoil or pamper his girls. He had never been that way, no matter what their social status.

So if David Smith thought that she was going to scurry off teary eyed and tattletale to her father, oh. . . then that maddening git had better buckle up, because he was in for quite an awakening.

The shrill whistling of the kettle did nothing to ease Georgia Parrish's nerves, which were already hanging on by increasingly fraying fringes. Taking a slow, haggard breath, she removed the kettle from the burner and began pouring the proper allotment of water into the two waiting mugs. Her movements were impeccably precise as she paid more than the usual attention to the monotonous routine of preparing tea, knowing that if she didn't give her complete focus to the task, the anxiety and near crippling grief of the last 24 hours would overtake her and she'd most assuredly scald herself with the boiling water.

As she allowed the tea to steep, Georgia closed her eyes and took another breath, this one slow and steadying, as she felt a familiar heat press against her eyelids. She was so tired of crying, it was all she had done since the fire. She'd valiantly tried to keep herself strong for Joshua's mother, but the moment she drove up to the airport pickup and saw the older woman waiting patiently for her, all of her resolve had crumbled and Georgia broke down sobbing, unable to leave the car or even signal her arrival. All she could do was clutch the steering wheel as agonizing sobs were torn from her body. She wasn't aware of anything around her until she felt herself being gathered into a warm embrace, the soft voice of Karen Daniels filling her ear and caressing her frazzled mind with comforting words.

When the two women finally arrived at Georgia's apartment in the early morning hours, both were exhausted and headed to their respective rooms. Though exhausted in every way, Georgia still found herself unable to sleep, tossing and turning for what felt like hours. Something within her spurred her to leave her bed and seek out the woman sleeping in the neighboring bedroom. Whether it was grief, the need to comfort, or the desire to be comforted, Georgia could not say. All she knew was that suddenly she was in the spare room and crawling in the bed, cuddling as would a child into Karen's side.

"I'm so sorry, Karen," she whispered into the dark. "I'm so sorry."

She'd assumed that the woman had been sleeping, but that assumption was proven false when she felt herself being pulled into a soft embrace. Grateful for the woman's motherly attention, Georgia moved in a bit closer, a fresh round of tears streaming down her cheeks.

Georgia forcibly pulled her thoughts away from the previous night, focusing on the mugs on the kitchen counter. Taking the cups of steaming liquid in hand, she wandered into her small living room where Karen was quietly sitting on the loveseat, staring quietly at the phone lying on the coffee take.

At the sound of the porcelain making contact with the wooden surface, Karen looked up and gave the young woman a weak yet genuine smile.

"I can't help but think that if I keep looking at the screen, it'll ring and he'll be on the other end," she gave a faint, harsh chuckle, wiping at her eyes. "Stupid wishful thinking, I know."

"It's not stupid," Georgia replied, taking a seat next to the worried mother. "He might."

A knowing look entered Karen's eyes, and she patted Georgia's hand. "Sweetie. . . I think you know as well as I do that we're gonna get a call. It just won't be from Josh."

Frowning at the negative comment, her eyes filling with sadness, Georgia pulled her hand away from the older woman, folding her hands in her lap.

"You don't know that," she maintained, turning her head downward and allowing her honey hued hair to obscure her face.

Georgia didn't want to hear such things. Yes, the rational part of her mind knew that Karen was right; however, the larger, more desperate part hoped beyond hope that when the phone did ring, Joshua would be the one on the line. The thought that she would never see him again, never hear his voice elicited a pain unlike any other, and the hot tears once again pricked her eyes.

"Georgia. . . " Karen beckoned, once again taking her hand. When Georgia continued to ignore her, she tugged gently on her hand. "C'mon, sweetie, look at me."

Refusing to meet the woman's gaze, Georgia shook her head in denial. "He still could, Karen," she continued to insist, albeit weakly. "Maybe he's. . . he. . . "

As she pitifully struggled to find the words, Karen looked over at her son's girlfriend, knowing that grief was blinding her to reality–that neither of them would ever again see Joshua.

"Sweetie, you need to hear and _listen_ to what I'm going to say." Reaching out her other hand, Karen gently wrapped her fingers around the young woman's chin and turned her head, forcing Georgia to look at her,

"Right now there's absolutely nothing I want more in this world than to have this phone ring and hear Josh's voice. To tell him that I love him, and then yell at him for making us sick with worry. But I know and you know that there's only one reason Josh would go this long without calling us. And even though it feels like a knife in my heart to think that way, it'd be worse for me to hold onto a hope that I know is a lie."

Sniffing, Georgia shook her head and harshly chuckled. "I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you. I'm doin' a real bang up job of that, aren't I?"

"I'm a mother," Karen shrugged. "If there's one thing I know how to do, it's take care of my kids. I think it's the only thing keepin' me sane at this point."

"But, I'm not your kid," the saddened woman spoke softly. "Josh and I weren't even engaged. Ya don't owe me anything. I. . . "

"You stop right there," Karen demanded. "None of what I'm doing is because I feel like I owe you something. My son loved you more than anything. I saw it from the moment he brought you home. And I've come to love you like you were one of my own girls. And no matter what, you will always have a place in our family. Ya hear me, missy?"

Though the thought of going on without the love of her life was nearly intolerable, the knowledge that Joshua's family cared so much about her served as balm to her pain. Sniffling back her tears, Georgia squeezed Karen's hand, smiling softly at her.

"Are they flying in—your girls, I mean?"

"No," Karen shook her head, "not right now. Celia is in the middle of exams, and Evey is still trying to adjust to having the twins. I told them both to stay put until we know something definite."

Georgia nodded in understanding, yet couldn't help but feel their loss, especially at a grievous time such as this. Her lips parted to change the subject, but the words died before they could reach her tongue. For at that very moment, Karen's mobile lighted up as it began ringing from its place on the coffee table. The two women glanced at each other for a fleeting moment before Karen reached out a trembling hand and answered the call.

"Hello. . . Yes, this is she. . . Yes. Yes, he is. . . Of course. . . Yes, I'll be there shortly."

Karen continued to focus on the screen as she lowered the phone and ended the call. With bated breath, Georgia waited for the woman to speak. After wait felt like an agonizingly interminable amount of time, Karen forced her eyes upward to meet the younger woman's waiting and fear-filled eyes.

"They found him. . . "

 _It's colder than I thought it'd be. . ._

Despite their current situation, the temperature of the sterile morgue was the only thing that Georgia could think about at that moment. If she didn't focus on that small detail, then she would be forced to acknowledge that the man she loved, the man she had envisioned spending the rest of her life with, was lifeless on the stainless steel table in front of her.

However, that attempt to divert her mind from wandering was fast proving ineffective. Though she had been impressively numb to everything that transpired after Karen's phone call, reality was demanding obeisance like a tyrannical dictator. It would no longer be ignored.

Her body began to act on its own accord. All the voices around her began to muffle, quickly being replaced by a dull ringing. A burning sensation started to spread through her lungs as they clamored for oxygen, and her head began to swim, a fuzziness clouding her vision. Her knees were threatening to buckle, but there was nowhere to rest her weakening body. Just as she was about to flee from the suffocating environment of the morgue, the medical examiner's words suddenly pierced through her muddled mind, and Georgia froze in place.

"Wait, what did you just say?" she interrupted the man, her eyes widening with shock and disbelief.

"I said that the preliminary cause of death is a heroin overdose," the young, dark haired man reiterated, evidently annoyed with having to do so.

Blinking rapidly, her brain unable to comprehend the words that had flowed so easily from his lips, Georgia whirled her gaze to the equally incredulous Karen before looking back at the M.E.

"Yeah, no. That's not possible," Georgia replied, "Josh would never do drugs! That wasn't who he was. The mere idea that he even knew _where_ to get drugs is ridiculous."

"The heroin mixed with fentanyl in his system would seem to indicate otherwise," the doctor sighed, seemingly put out with her denial. "Clearly he wasn't who you thought he was."

"Excuse me?" Georgia demandingly seethed, her eyes flashing with anger as she took a step towards him.

Karen swiftly put her hand on the young woman's arm, silently admonishing her to keep back. Feeling Georgia stiffen beneath her touch, she soothingly stroked her arm for a brief moment.

"With all due respect, Doctor…" Karen squinted at the nameplate on the young man's lab coat, "Mitchell, Georgia is right. Josh was never a drug user. Not even a joint in high school."

Adam Mitchell didn't even bother anymore to hide his irritation and rolled his eyes.

"Mrs. Daniels, Miss Parrish, I don't know how to put it any simpler than that. The syringe at the scene, the puncture marks, the blood analysis—it all indicates an OD. It's unfortunate, but people aren't always who we think they are," he continued patronizingly, "especially family. And as difficult as it might be to find out about your son's usage, it doesn't change the fact th-. . ."

"I want another autopsy," Karen interrupted, her face not betraying any of the fury she was feeling at the callous doctor. "A thorough one, at that."

"Mrs. Daniels," Dr. Mitchell sighed yet again, "I don't-. . ."

"Quite frankly, Dr. Mitchell, I couldn't care less about your opinion or what you're about to say," Karen countered evenly, brooking no rebuttal. "If you're too much of an arrogant jerk to do your job thoroughly, then I want someone else who can. You can't be the only M.E. on staff. So from this moment on, you keep your godforsaken hands off my son. And I swear on all that's holy, if you screw with me, I will make it my personal mission in life to bring you down. Understand me,' _Doctor_ '?"

The young doctor's nostrils flared at the woman's verbal attack, and he narrowed his eyes, regarding her with unveiled disdain.

"Well, that's certainly your prerogative," he spat through gritted teeth. "I'll let my supervisor know of your decision."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Mitchell," she returned, intentionally forgetting his title. "I'd hate for you to actually have to put forth effort. I'll personally make him aware of my decision."

Not waiting for any further derisive remark or arrogance from the medical examiner, Karen turned to leave, but suddenly became aware that Georgia was no longer in the room with her. Knowing it would be useless to ask the man if he'd bothered to see her leave, she left the room to search for the distraught young woman.

As she walked the darkened hallway, Rose couldn't help but feel like the first victim in a horror film; as if at any moment, some hook-for-a-hand homicidal maniac was going to lunge out from the shadows. She rolled her eyes and grinned at her ridiculousness.

Finding the IT department was more challenging than she had anticipated. However, in all honesty, Paige _did_ warn her that it wasn't the easiest place to navigate to, thanks to the "sultans" who ran it. According to her, the two guys in charge were "the most temperamental, retarded geniuses you'll ever meet." So, with that winning description, Rose was unsure what to expect upon meeting them.

Finally arriving to at the department's door, Rose was surprised and more than a bit taken aback to see how. . . uninviting. . . it appeared. There were no windows, no doorbell or telephone to alert them to anyone's presence, not even a name placard to identify whom actually made up the department. In fact, the only way Rose knew that she was in the right location was because of the life-size Stormtrooper Paige had said would be standing guard.

After looking around one more time, Rose decided to use the tried and true method of knocking. Her knuckles barely hit the surface before the door slightly opened; obviously, whoever was last to come or go had failed to latch it entirely. Seizing the opportunity, she pushed open the door further and entered.

"Uh, hello?" she called out, again rapping her knuckles against the door as she stepped further into the room. Her eyes widened as she took in her surroundings—surroundings that oddly enough looked as if every electronic and gadget store had thrown up their inventory. It would be rather impressive if it weren't so overwhelming.

Her eyes flitted around the room and she saw a spiky-haired blonde man hunched over a laptop, furiously pounding away at the keys, completely oblivious to the world around him. The only other individual present was a dark-skinned man sprawled out on a worn sofa, absorbed in the rather campy sci-fi show on the ginormous flat-screen television.

Rose couldn't help but grin at the scene, but since she was in real need of assistance, she cleared her throat and called out again, this time in a louder voice.

"Hello?"

Immediately the man on the sofa shot upright and stared at her with a hard expression. Just then, the junky metal creatures on the screen called out, "Eradicate," and Rose couldn't help but think that the man on the sofa was thinking that very thing in regards to her presence.

"How did you get in here? No one's s'posed to be here," he questioned pointedly, disregarding the perfunctory pleasantries.

"Sorry. The door was open," Rose explained. "An' I did knock first."

"Open?" he narrowed his eyes before flitting them over to his preoccupied associate. Seeing his behavior, he grumbled under his breath, picking up a stray remote and flinging it at him.

Crying out in surprise and pain, the blonde whirled around and glared at his friend.

"Dude! You forgot to close the door. . . _again_!" the dark-skinned man growled, pointing at a confused Rose.

The blonde man looked at Rose and then back at his friend. "I'm kinda in the middle of something here, Mickey. Besides, you have opposable thumbs, last time I checked. You can close a door just as easily as me."

"Oh my God, Jake," Mickey grumbled, "are you still fooling around with that thing? Let it go, man. You're not gonna figure it out."

"I'm so close to tracing the source code. It's just a matter of time before I find her," Jake insisted, whirling back to face his monitor.

Mickey rolled his eyes. "Dude, you've been sayin' that every day for the past three weeks. Pretty sure it's not gonna happen at this point. And why do you keep insisting it's a chick?"

"Because this program is temperamental, hard to follow, incessantly running, and makes me want to gouge my own eyes out. That and the fact that no man is secure enough in his masculinity to go by the handle 'Weeping Angel.'"

Finally having enough of being ignored, Rose halted any further exchange. "Look, I know you've got things to do, but I need your help." She held up a thumb-drive. "I was tryin' t-. . ."

Annoyed both by his friend's words and the young woman's unwanted presence, Jake whirled his chair around to face her.

"Listen, sweetheart," he began with no small amount of condescension, "I know you're dying to download some new Taylor Swift album or whatever ridiculously preppy thing you've got on that drive; but we're not paid t-. . ."

After the day she had so far, Rose was done with everything and everyone. "Oi!" she shouted, halting Jake mid-sentence and charging into his personal space. "Listen here, mate—I've had it with arrogant twats who've got their heads so far up their bums it's a wonder they can breathe," she seethed, encroaching even closer in Jake's sphere. "There's only a handful of people I let call me 'sweetheart,' and you are not one of 'em! Name's Rose—use it!"

Jake was becoming exceedingly fearful of the irate woman hovering over him. However, Rose remained undeterred, refusing to back down in any way. "I came down here to ask for legitimate help. But you two berks are so busy tryin' to find some bird and watching _Inspector Spacetime_ to actually do your bloody job. So forget you two—I'll figure it out on my own! You can take your bloody pigheaded arrogance and shove it up your bum, that is if you've got any room in there!"

Trembling with rage, Rose spun on her heel to storm out, but was immediately halted by Mickey's voice calling out to her.

"You know _Inspector Spacetime_?"

She whirled around to face him, stupified as to how _that_ statement out of everything was the one that caught his attention.

"Ya hear the accent, yeah?" she asked with a cocked eyebrow. "I'm British. Of course I know it!"

"Yeah," Jake started, his tone laced with doubt, "but do you _actually_ know anything 'bout it? I know who Bieber is, but it doesn't mean I'm a member of his fan club."

Fighting back her anger, Rose narrowed her eyes and bit her lip, crossing her arms. "Alright, mate. You really wanna play this game?" she challenged. "Fine. . . This one," she motioned her head towards the episode paused on the screen, "is a two-parter where Constable Reggie gets captured by the Blorgons and replaced with a duplicate who tries to kill the Inspector. It's also the episode where the Inspector saves a shop girl named Lily, who, of course, is his true love and becomes his wife two series later."

The two tech specialists stared at her with no small amount of shock and awe, their mouths absurdly agape.

"So, we done here?" Rose asked, smirking at their dazed expressions.

Suddenly, matching grins emerged on the two men's faces, along with what Rose would swear was akin to respect.

Shaking his head and chuckling, Jake stood up and walked towards her. "So, what was it ya needed, swee-…uh, Rose?" he quickly corrected, reaching out for the USB she still clutched in her hand.

Looking from his proffered hand to his face with a raised brow, Rose slowly uncrossed her arms and handed him the thumb-drive.

"I was trying to transfer my research files onto my new computer upstairs, but it won't acknowledge the drive. I've never had a problem with it. So. . ."

"Lemme take a look," Jake replied. "I bet I can work it out."

"Y'sure?"

"Yep," Mickey chimed in. "And if he can't, then I definitely can."

"Well, um. . . thanks." Rose sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "An'. . . um, I'm sorry 'bout the way I acted. Well. . . not completely. I mean, you two were colossal wankers, but. . ." she trailed off, realizing she was simultaneously giving and taking back her apology.

"Actually. . ." the two men started jointly. Mickey motioned for Jake to take the lead. Fidgeting foot to foot and rubbing the back of his neck, Jake winced as he began to speak. "We weren't exactly friendly."

"Hey!" Mickey piped up. "Speak for yourself, bub. I was. . ."

"Just as much of a git," Rose countered, narrowing her eyes at him.

Jake snorted while Mickey winced sheepishly at her reproach. She could tell that the two were gearing up for another round of bickering, but before she could intervene, her mobile began to ring. Glancing at the screen, she frowned at the unfamiliar number.

"I've should take this," Rose waved the phone before stepping outside the room. She took several steps past the door before accepting the call.

"Hello?"

 _"This is Rose, yeah? Rose Tyler?"_ a female voice asked.

"Uh, yeah," Rose affirmed hesitantly. "This is…?"

 _"Georgia Parrish. I talked to you the other night. . . at the fire. You may not remember me. . ."_

"No, of course I remember ya," Rose assured her. The woman's rapid speech and tense tone was concerning. "Are you alright?"

There was a brief silence before Georgia started in again.

 _"He's dead," she sobbed. "Josh's dead. They found him early this morning. But it's not right. They said he OD'd, but he wouldn't do that. It's impossible, no matter what they say. Somethin' else happened, I know it did. None of it makes sense, and all I can think is that. . . that. . ."_

"What, Georgia?" Rose prodded gently.

Several beats passed before Georgia suddenly spoke again, this time her voice an anguished whisper.

 _"I think. . . Rose, I think someone murdered Joshua."_


	6. Do You See What I See?

"For God's sake, Adam, what did you do?" Chief Medical Examiner Eric Slocum demanded of his young staffer.

Sighing exasperatedly, Adam Mitchell leaned back in his chair, angling his leg to his knee.

"Mrs. Daniels, I'm guessing?" he inquired knowingly, his irritation evident by his tone.

"Well, unless you've pissed off someone else this morning that I'm not aware of, then yes, I'm talking about Mrs. Daniels!" Slocum growled. "Care to explain why an irate mother tore me a new one an hour ago?"

"C'mon. . . Ya know how it is, Eric. Sometimes families don't like what they hear. I told her and that other one—think she was a girlfriend or somethin'—that the guy OD'd, and they lost it. That's all."

Eric narrowed his eyes at the dismissive response. "Adam, I've been doin' this for 17 years—I've dealt with denial and unreasonable, irate family members. Karen Daniels does not fall into that category. She didn't spend twenty minutes giving me some sob story about how her boy was a saint. Instead, she spent it verbally skinning you."

The young doctor sighed again, shrugging his shoulders. "What do you want me to say, Eric? I told you what happened," he said, completely nonchalant about the situation.

A sudden, throbbing pain formed between Dr. Slocum's eyes, not an unusual occurrence when in the young man's presence. True, Adam Mitchell was a particularly skilled pathologist, but it was that fact that made him practically unbearable the majority of the time. His cocky, self-assured manner rubbed a fair portion of the staff the wrong way, including Eric Slocum. If it weren't for his skill, he would have fired Adam within the first month of his hiring. That was why he had no trouble in believing Karen Daniels' account of Adam's condescension and flippancy. Despite that, Eric had no actual cause for disciplinary action, though of late, he was sorely tempted to twist policy to make it happen.

"Look, I don't have time for this anymore," Eric muttered while firmly pressing the bridge of his nose. "Just hand the case over to someone else."

Adam straightened his posture, his features taut with irritation. "Seriously? Do we really have to do this? The autopsy's done. Are we really gonna cater to this woman just because she puts out a few tears?"

"We're not catering to anything. By law, if the next of kin demands another autopsy, we have to comply. You know that, Adam."

"Are you questioning my work?" Adam questioned sharply, his jaw tightening, his eyes challenging.

Slocum was no longer in the mood for discussion with the young doctor. "Are you questioning _my_ decision?" he snapped. "Because last time I checked, it was _my_ name on the door, not yours. So, until that little fact changes, you'll follow my orders or I'll find someone else who will."

"Fine," Adam gritted out. "Who do ya want me to give it to?"

"Whoever has the least cases assigned to them. Check the list and hand it off," the Chief ME instructed with an air of finality.

Grinding his jaw once again, Adam stood and forced a strained, sarcastic smile. "Yes, sir, Dr. Slocum. Whatever you say."

Neither man offered a parting word before Adam took his leave. The anger he'd displayed in Slocum's office was quickly being supplemented with a nervous energy. Things were starting to divert from their intended path, all thanks to two stubborn, vocal women. The idea that his findings would be questioned had not been anticipated. Never before had it been an issue.

Nervous energy needed to be dispelled in some fashion, causing Adam to vigorously scratch behind his ear, gruffly sighing as his mind kicked into over-gear. Should he let him know about the second autopsy? For that matter, how was he even supposed to contact him? It had always been one-sided communication, something to which Adam never questioned or objected. After all, their interactions weren't ones highlighted with chattiness. So, just how exactly was this shift in events supposed to be reported?

 _But . . . does it really need to be . . .?_

That sudden thought popped into Adam's mind, and his whirlwind of questions came to a screeching halt. Did he _really_ need to be concerned about this? It wasn't as if he'd lost _total_ control of the situation. Slocum had instructed him to give the case to the least backlogged examiner, but Adam was certain he could circumvent that parameter. Oh, he'd hand it over to someone not completely overwhelmed, just as instructed, but it'd be one who wouldn't question his initial report. Or at least, one who could be convinced to follow the lead and not prod more than necessary.

A candidate immediately popped into mind, and Adam grinned at the idea of seeing the new and rather attractive examiner. When he first met her, he wasted no time in making a move, but she had immediately shut him down by going into great detail about her boyfriend. However, her boyfriend situation didn't deter him, because in his experience, those were always negotiable. A few more interactions, and Adam was certain she'd be agreeable to a bit of diversion.

Quickly turning on his heel, he navigated the halls and stairwells until he reached her assigned area. He found his target hovering over a male corpse, her arms elbow deep in his chest cavity. When he saw his prey, his signature cocky grin reemerged, crawling its way up his cheek in preparation for his task.

Apparently the young doctor had heard his approach for she looked up from her work, her goggle-clad face instantly registering annoyance at his interruption.

"And to what do I owe this . . . visit?" she asked succinctly, turning her attention back to the deceased on the slab.

"Aw, c'mon, Marty . . . aren't you even the slightest bit happy to see me?" he flirtingly inquired, walking up to her.

The young woman bit the inside of her cheek as she attempted to maintain a semblance of respect.

"Well, Adam, as you can hopefully see, I'm sorta in the middle of something . . . someone, actually. Not really able to entertain at the moment," she answered, her tone strained. "And can you please not call me 'Marty'? That's not my name," she added as an afterthought.

"Aw, c'mon," Adam goaded again as he nudged his elbow against the back of her knee, lingering a bit longer than she liked. "A cute girl's gotta have a cute nickname."

"Never been one for nicknames," she retorted, moving her leg away.

"Give it time," Adam grinned. "It'll grow on ya."

Briefly closing her eyes and praying for self-control, the young doctor buried her hands further into the corpse, eager for any and all distance between them.

"Seriously, Adam, was there something you needed?"

Sighing at her lack of participation, Adam took a few steps back. "Some psycho mom wasn't happy with the results of her son's autopsy. She made a big scene in Slocum's office and now wants a second one."

"Nice story," she quipped while incising the man's superior vena cava. "Lemme know how it ends."

"With you doing the autopsy."

'Marty' nearly severed clean through the poor corpse's heart at Adam's statement. "Are you freakin' kidding me?" she groaned in complete incredulity. "Have you seen my list of post-mortems?"

"I know, I know," Adam pseudo-sympathized, putting his hands in the air in surrender. "Everybody's swamped. But you know how it is—rookies get the short straw."

'Marty' inwardly growled at that unofficial standard.

' _Cause that makes a whole lotta sense . . ._

"Fine, whatever . . . Just leave the file on my desk. I'll try to get to it in a little while."

Seeing the perfect opportunity to lay his groundwork, Adam offered, "Hey, tell ya what—just use my findings."

At the suggestion, the young doctor turned her attention back to the irritant in the room, cocking a brow at him.

"I mean, run a few generic tests. Y'know, just enough to give some 'new' findings, but nothing that requires a bunch of time. Like ya said, you're busy. No need to put yourself out just because some bitty can't face facts."

Were it not for the sole fact that it would most likely contaminate the body and her results, 'Marty' would have spat in the cocky jerk's face. Yes, it could have also cost her the job, but that really didn't bother her at the moment. It was the fact that Adam—her so-called "superior"—had the sheer audacity to suggest she lackadaisically go about her job.

Normally, speaking her mind was not something with which she had difficulty; but fortunately, the rational part of her brain seized control of her mouth.

"I'll be sure to take your suggestion under advisement," she gritted out with a surprisingly convincing smile. "Now, if you don't mind . . . " she trailed off, gesturing towards the body lying in wait before her.

"Sure thing. Lemme know if you need anything, Marty," Adam proffered, grinning and throwing a wink her direction before finally leaving her in peace.

The young woman rolled her eyes heavenward and blew out several harsh breaths as she attempted to calm down from the unwanted interaction and his incessant use of that irritating moniker.

 _Seriously, how hard is it to say Martha?_

* * *

Rose was slightly out of breath as she finished her high-heeled sprint up the subway steps. Reaching the sidewalk, she stepped to the side and braced herself against the peeling, green metal railing, taking a few needed breaths as she pulled her mobile from her purse. Scrolling through her texts, she found the address needed, which was fortunately less than two blocks away. Quickly returning the mobile to her purse, Rose turned and determinedly made her way through the noonday hustle and bustle.

As she reached the corner brick building, Rose stopped at the base of the steps, taking a slow breath to clear the nerves that had suddenly crept up and were fluttering about in her stomach. The steps felt interminable as she climbed, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure the reason behind her worries. Was it because of her inexperience? Georgia's fears? Or, worse yet, David's words?

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Rose took another breath and pressed the button identified by a fading black _Parrish_. In a matter of seconds, there was an answer.

" _Yeah?"_

"Hi. It's Rose Ty- . . ."

She didn't even get a chance to fully state her name before the buzzer sounded, granting her access inside. When she reached the desired apartment door, Rose lightly rapped her knuckles against the faded oak only twice before the door was immediately opened, revealing a clearly fatigued Georgia Parrish. Rose's eyebrows flitted upward in slight surprise at such a swift response, but she quickly put that emotion aside and offered the young woman a warm smile.

There was somewhat of an awkward pause as Georgia continued to hold open the door, yet made no motion for Rose to enter the apartment.

Unsure what the best play was at the moment but deciding to err on the side of caution, Rose softly cleared her throat.

"If this is a bad time, I ca- . . ."

"No," Georgia interjected, suddenly called to her senses. "Sorry," she hastily shuffled out of the pathway, extending her arm in invitation, "I'm, uh . . . just having a lil' bitta trouble thinkin' straight." She sighed and threaded her fingers through her hair, her eyes flitting back and forth as if she was mentally searching for something.

"Completely understandable," Rose replied with soft yet genuine earnest as she followed Georgia to the quaint living room.

"Uh, just sit wherever you'd like," she offered, gesturing absently to the furniture.

Rose took a seat on the sofa with Georgia joining her, though a slight distance away. She watched in patient silence as the grieving woman anxiously rubbed her wrists, intermittently twisting her fingers. After taking a few slow, silent breaths, Georgia's lips parted to speak, but the words died on the tip of her tongue as an unexpected voice broke the silence.

"Everything alright, sweetie?"

Both Georgia and Rose instantly turned their heads towards the direction of the voice. Rose, having learned early on in life to size people up, made a quick appraisal of the woman now with them. Though grey was weaved through her blonde hair, she still retained a youthful appearance. There was also a definite maternal air about her. The sharp, protective look in her eyes, the tension in her stance, and the slightly authoritative lilt in her voice brought Rose to the conclusion that she was most definitely a mother—a suspicious one, at that.

"Yeah, everything's fine, Karen," Georgia assured her with a small smile. "This is, uh, Rose Tyler. Rose, this is Josh's mom."

Upon learning the woman's identity, empathy and understanding filled her heart. As she smiled and gave a small wave, Rose felt the woman—Karen—make a prompt study of her before offering a small smile in return.

"Nice to meet you, Rose."

Though Karen's statement was genuine, it didn't change the fact that she felt somewhat apprehensive about the young blonde's identity. That apprehension was palpable and nearly stifling within the confines of the small living room, creating a sort of unintentional standoff between the three women.

Finally deciding to take charge of the situation—after all, her actions had initiated it—Georgia broke the awkward and increasingly tense silence.

"I met Rose last night . . . at," she swallowed, her tongue feeling thick and heavy, " . . . at the fire. She's gonna help find out what really happened to Joshua."

There was the faintest pursing of her lips as Karen processed that new information. Rose saw that flicker of change, saw her analyzing the situation; and though she was sorely tempted to interject, she realized that silence was the best course.

"So, Rose . . . are you a detective or some sort of consultant?" Karen questioned slowly.

"No, ma'am," Rose answered politely, conscious that her next words were likely not to be well received. "I work for _The Centurion_ as one of their investigative reporters."

Just as suspected, Karen's features immediately hardened and her brow arched challengingly, her jaw tightening. There was a steeliness that entered her dark hazel eyes as she crossed her arms and parted her lips to speak.

"And just how exactly do _you_ plan to ' _help_ ,' Miss Tyler? Hmm? Correct me if I'm wrong, but most of you reporters are soul-sucking parasites who care only about headlines and sensationalism, and couldn't give one freaking ounce of crap about what is or isn't fact, never mind the damage they cause the people they exploit. Why should I expect anything less of you?"

As a rule, Karen Daniels was a perfectly lovely individual—typically considerate and patient. However, the immensity of her grief and the life-altering events within the last twenty-four hours trumped those traits. Seeing her only son's cold, lifeless body and having to endure the condescension and judgment of an insufferable narcissist had left her in no mood to trifle with anyone that could take advantage of or bring added agony to her or her loved ones.

Rose would be lying if she'd maintained that the mother's pained and bitter tirade hadn't affected her. It most certainly had an effect on her, and not just because of the vehemence of the words, but because Rose _truly_ understood their foundation. She'd experienced firsthand such "soul-sucking parasites" and their relentless quest for front-page fodder. Despite the passing of years, Rose still felt the sharp pang of painful humiliation anytime those memories were drudged up.

Maintaining composure in pure professionalism, Rose focused intently on the challenging mother, her features set in determination, but eyes soft with compassion.

"Truthfully?" she started, "I can't give you a reason that you'll readily believe, an' I can't fault you for that. Y'don't know me, so you've got no reason to trust me at first glance."

"You're not real good at talking yourself up, are ya?" Karen asked a bit wryly.

"Oh, I have my moments," Rose smirked, "but now shouldn't be one of 'em. This isn't about makin' myself look good. I'm here because I honestly want to help. I know what it's like to have people you love be ripped from you, to have that pain coursing through your veins. It's sheer agony, An' there's absolutely _nothing_ that would ever make me take advantage of that! It doesn't matter what is or isn't worth a headline, what matters is the truth, an' you'll get nothin' less from me."

Her gaze traveled from Karen to Georgia and back. Both women regarded her thoughtfully, though the latter with a small, appreciative smile.

"So," Rose sighed, softly shrugging her shoulders, "there ya have it. If you'd rather I leave, I'll understand. But I know you want answers, an' if you'd let me, I'd like the chance to help you find them."

The steely, analytical stare finally morphed into one of soft acceptance, and Karen joined the two young women in the living room, taking a seat on the faded suede chair.

"Well then," she sighed, "where do we start?"

* * *

Leaning back in her chair, with her heels propped up on her desk and a knowing smirk plastered on her face, Paige observed David from across the bullpen. He was clearly in an irritable and frustrated mood, if the incessant finger drumming and periodic face scrubbing were any indication.

The young woman couldn't help but find it quite amusing, especially since she was convinced that his attitude had absolutely _nothing_ to do with writing his column.

Her grin blossoming by the minute, Paige grabbed her iPhone, her thumb expertly flying across the screen.

 _ **Problem? –PB &J**_

She watched as her honorary brother picked up his mobile, sighing before quickly replying.

 _ **What's with the PB &J thing?**_

 _ **Hvn fun w/ my initals. What goes w/ PB? J! ;) –PB &J**_

 _ **Clever…strange, but clever**_

 _ **I try… u didn't answr me… smthg wrong? –PB &J**_

 _ **Trouble concentrating**_

A snort escaped as Paige read the response.

 _ **Oh I'll bet! –PB &J**_

 _ **Meaning?**_

Biting her lip to contain her ridiculous grin, Paige's thumb flew across the keypad.

 _ **Well…must b hard to think n black n white when u got blonde on the brain! –PB &J**_

The second she hit send Paige trained her eyes on David, eagerly waiting to see his reaction. He picked up his phone, and as he read the text, his brow furrowed and a scowl whittled his face. He lifted his eyes and locked with Paige's, the scowl intensifying as he saw her futile attempt to hide her mirth. Picking up his mobile, he wiggled it the air before jerking his desk drawer open, tossing it inside and shoving it closed.

 _Like that's gonna stop me . . ._

Quickly rising from her chair, she sauntered over to David, plopping down onto the edge of his desk.

"Whatcha doin', buddy?" she asked in playful singsong.

David's eyes were fixated intently on his monitor, refusing to visually acknowledge her.

"Attempting to finish my column, despite your little interruptions."

"Doesn't that require you to actually _touch_ the keyboard, or have you suddenly evolved into a technopath?"

"Well, I am a man of many talents," David answered sardonically.

"Betcha Rose would like to see some of them talents," Paige quipped with a small chuckle.

David's head whirled around so fast that she was surprised it didn't twist off and fall to the floor. He saw the glittering of her eyes, which she accented with a waggle of her brow.

"Don't start, Paige," he glowered. "I'm not interested in showing Rose Tyler anything. In fact, she's the farthest thing from my mind. Haven't even given her a second thought."

"Oh really . . . " she drawled in disbelief, "so . . . do you often comment on various body parts of people you don't think twice about?"

A highly dramatic sigh of exasperation was let loose as David turned in his chair, finally directly facing her, and crossed his arms.

"What are you talking about, Paige?"

Mimicking his behavior, Paige sighed and crossed her arms, yet was still unable to fully extinguish her cheeky grin.

"I have it on good authority—and by good authority, I mean I was sitting right there while it all happened—that you made a comment about Rose's butt!"

The speed with which David's jaw dropped was incalculable. "I wa- . . . that is, I haven't been lo- . . . "

"Lemme stop ya right there, Davey Boy. I _know_ you did. During your little telephonic tiff, Rose said, and I quote: 'All discussion of my bum is off-limits.' So . . . wanna rethink your story there, bro?"

David couldn't help the involuntary pinking of his ears, but he quickly turned his head, clearing his throat.

"I simply made the comment that her perk- . . . " David saw Paige's eyebrows skyrocket as he began the adjective. He immediately cut himself off, clearing his throat yet again as he altered his reply. "That she was sitting in my chair, and that I would very much like it back. Satisfied now?"

"Well," the young woman hummed, pursing her smirking lips and fiddling with the end of her plait, "let's hope to God she never wears pigtails to work."

"Y'know," David started, "it's positively _astounding_ how far off base you are. Normally, you're such a highly intuitive person."

Paige inwardly rolled her eyes.

 _Oh, you have no idea . . ._

"Hmm," she shrugged, "must be slippin'."

"Well, I won't hold it against you," David smirked. "But just to be clear, I am _not_ interested in Rose Tyler. Not now, not ever."

 _You are so full of it . . ._

"Gotcha," Paige appeased his need for denial. "No lovey-dovey."

"Good."

"Well," she sighed, "guess I should bounce. Things to do, things to do." She pushed off his desk before ruffling his hair. "Later."

As Paige put distance between herself and David's area, her thoughts couldn't help but go back to the hot topic that was "Rose and David." Their bickering and behavior was not only highly entertaining, but also intriguing. Though she didn't have all of the details, Paige was certain that something weighty had transpired during their first encounter. However, based on their interactions throughout the day, not _every_ part of that first meeting had been antagonistic.

She continued to muse about the two as she approached her grandfather's office and knocked on the door. On hearing his muffled beckoning, Paige eagerly entered, smiling affectionately at the dear man behind the desk.

"How goes it, Gramps?"

"Hey there, sweetheart," he greeted, returning her smile. "Fairly well, just a little slow. But, the day's barely halfway done, anything could happen."

Paige grinned at the slight pout on her grandfather's face. Though there were unpleasant, sometimes harsh, elements to it, he truly loved his work and the excitement that most often came with it. So when the days tended to lean more towards the uneventful side, Paige couldn't help but compare him to a little boy kicking the ground in boredom. It was awfully endearing.

"Well, fingers crossed," she pantomimed before flopping down into one of the seats in front of him. She propped her heeled boots onto the desk as she started to speak. "So . . . "

Her words were interrupted as Wilf frowningly swatted at her feet. "Feet off the desk."

Sighing with an eye roll, Paige acquiesced. "So, Rose seems to have been a good call. I read some of her work, it's excellent."

"I agree. She's got talent and potential in spades. With a bit of experience, I think she'll be phenomenal."

A sly grin slowly formed at the opening her grandfather had inadvertently given her.

"Speakin' of experience, there's somethin' I wanna run by you . . . "

* * *

As the elevator journeyed upward, Rose could feel her impatient excitement and nervousness increase. Her mind was awhirl after the meeting with Karen and Georgia. Everything they'd divulged—both fears and facts—coupled with her own innate senses convinced her that something duplicitous was definitely at play. She could feel it in her bones and was determined to snuff it out.

However, Rose needed certain resources at her disposal—resources that were readily available at _The Centurion_. In order to have access to those, she needed to have Wilf onboard with the idea. And while she had the impression that he was an open-minded man, her limited interaction with him still left her uncertain about what to expect. Part of her wanted to pursue it on her own time, to not even bother with telling him; but Rose knew that she had to initially include her boss. If afterwards Wilf was opposed to the idea, then she would circumvent around it and find other avenues to use.

As the elevator door finally opened onto the floor and the few occupants disembarked, Rose swallowed her trepidation and determinedly made her way to Wilf's office. Almost immediately after she rapped her knuckles against the surface, the invitation to enter was given.

Upon entering the room, Rose caught sight of something in her periphery. She faced it and saw Paige reclining the length of the small leather sofa, phone in hand.

The spunky teen smiled widely at her. "'Sup, Rose?"

"Sorry," Rose apologized, looking from her to Wilf. "I hope I'm not interrupting anythin'."

"Not at all," Wilf assured her. "Paige likes to occasionally slum in here, don't ya, Paige?"

"Yup," she replied, her thumb swiftly traveling back and forth across her screen.

"You'll get used to it. Now," he motioned to one of the available chairs, "what can I do for you, Rose?"

"Well," she started, taking a seat and crossing her legs, "I think I stumbled onto somethin' and I wanted to see if you'd lemme run with it. Last night, while I was at that fire, I- . . . "

The abrupt knocking and opening of the door prevented Rose from continuing.

"Paige said you wanted to see me, Wilf?"

Hearing David Smith's voice instantly caused Rose to tense, and she closed her eyes in annoyance before turning to face him. Their eyes met, and she watched as David's brow arched while he quickly studied her. She felt an unfamiliar niggling sensation as he looked at her, but she suppressed the urge to fidget under it. Instead, she arched her brow in kind, almost challengingly. That electricity that seemed to surround them began to hum as the two maintained eye contact.

"Yes, David," Wilf affirmed. "C'mon in. Have a seat."

Looking at the proffered seat next to Rose, David forced a smile and sat down.

"Sorry for the interruption, Rose," Wilf apologized, "but just bear with me. It's actually perfect timing. I actually wanted to talk to you both together."

His statement was met with identical looks of confused apprehension, and he smiled inwardly.

"I've been thinking about it, and I'd like for you two to work together."

There was a deafening silence as the two stared at him in shock, neither blinking. All of a sudden, the quiet was shattered as they leapt to their feet and shouted in unison.

" _WHAT?!"_


	7. Partners, Co-Workers, & Other Expletives

_**AN: Just wanted to take a moment to say thank you to those who continue to read, and a big thank you to those who have taken time out to write a review. I appreciate your interest and encouragement. Thank you all!** **Enjoy!**_

* * *

Shock is a universally acknowledged concept, as are its many varying forms. For instance, there's the occasional and always unwelcomed, "Holy Mother, I can't believe we almost died!" Then, of course, there's the ever popular and highly sought-after, "You're asking me to marry you?" which is often followed some time later by, "What do you mean _pregnant_?" However, the intensity of such scenarios paled in comparison to the current state in which Rose Marion Tyler and David Christopher Smith found themselves.

Both were normally not lacking for words; however, Wilf's unexpected decree that they suddenly join forces left them abnormally silent, save for their one-word outburst. An outburst that went unacknowledged by Wilf.

"Now, then," the elder man proceeded, not even batting an eye at their incredulous expressions, "before y- . . ."

"Sorry," David interrupted, finally having found his voice, "but when you say 'work together,' what exactly do you mean by that?"

"I mean just that, David," Wilf replied, quirking his graying brow. "You and Rose will be working together from here on out. Don't know how much simpler I can phrase it."

Pursing his lips in tandem with contracting his brow, David attempted to process the simple statement, yet continued to fall short.

"I, uh . . ." Rose finally croaked out, "I'm still not getting the punch-line."

Like David, she, too, was having difficulty wrapping her mind around the concept of partnership. To the cub reporter, this untoward development was possibly worse than all of her prior envisioned scenarios. Flittering her eyes around the increasingly awkward space, Rose desperately sought out some semblance of humor from the other three. All she found, unfortunately, was a gaped mouth columnist, a slightly exasperated Editor-in-Chief, and a suspiciously stoic Paige. Absolutely nothing in their demeanor suggested that a joke was being played on her.

"What would make you think that any of what I've said is a joke, Rose?" Wilf questioned, his tone edging towards pithy as he continued to observe his two writers.

Beginning to feel flustered under her boss' keen scrutiny, Rose began to shake her head in denial.

"N-No, sir. I mean, nothing. S'just I- . . ."

"Sorry, still not clear 'bout the 'together' part," David interjected, his mind stubbornly refusing to make the logical conclusion on the matter. "Do you mean t- . . ."

"Oh for God's sake, ya bleedin' berk," Rose grumbled irritably, her eyes rolling heavenward. "What other definition of 'together' do you know? It's an incredibly common concept." She scoffed, "Ya sure you're a writer?"

"I was hoping we'd stumbled upon some grammatical breakthrough," he snapped back, promptly turning his sharp gaze on her. "And you're one to talk, Miss Punch-Line! Exactly what part of this did you find so humorous?"

Rose's eyes flashed at her opponent. "Absolutely nothing! But it's so bloody absurd, what else was I s'posed to think?"

All the muscles in David's body tensed, his cheek twitching as he geared up to respond; but his words never passed his lips.

"Alright, that's _enough!"_ Wilf ordered, his tone brooking absolutely no challenges.

His sharp tone instantly garnered the bickering duo's attention, and they whirled their heads to face him.

"Both of you sit down—now!"

Without another word, David and Rose dropped to their seats and focused on their incredibly displeased boss. Both knew that they had been incredibly foolish to argue like that in front of the man, but they couldn't help it. Whenever they were in proximity of each other it was as if fire met gasoline.

"I don't know what's gotten into you two, but when you're on my time, you act like professionals and not like a bunch of moody, bickering teenagers! Got it?"

A faint flush of shame at their behavior filled the two, and they mutely nodded in acknowledgement.

"Um, offense taken," Paige piped up from the sofa, slightly frowning at the teenager comparison.

Her halfhearted remark earned her a reproachful glance from her grandfather. Seeing his displeased and "not in the mood for it" demeanor, Paige awkwardly cleared her throat.

"Right . . . not the time," she mumbled, quickly redirecting her gaze and idly fiddling with the phone in her hand.

Briefly cocking an eyebrow at his granddaughter, Wilf sighed before turning his piercing eyes back to the bickering duo.

"Now," he settled his elbows on the desk, "I don't owe either of you an explanation for my decision, but I'm gonna give ya one, so consider yourselves lucky, 'kay?"

Once again, both Rose and David nodded in understanding, their sense of professionalism finally having returned to them.

"Right, then. Rose, you're up to your ears in potential. I mean it. Truly, some of the best work I've read in a long time."

A faint blush warmed her cheeks at the praise, and she gave a small smile. "Thank you, sir. 'Preciate that."

"That being said," Wilf continued, "you are still new to this business. All the potential in the world won't matter unless you cultivate it, and that requires guidance and experience." He then moved his focus to David. "And you, David—once upon a time, you did this sort of thing, and you did it brilliantly. One of the best I've ever worked with."

The corner of David's mouth twitched upward in a half-smile, but that smile faded just as quickly when Wilf spoke his next words.

"But things have changed," his tone hardened and an indecipherable expression passed over his eyes. "So you want the reason why you're partnered up? It's 'cause you both have something to learn. And, most importantly, it's because I said so."

Mutual surprise and relief was felt amongst those in the room as the words settled on each of them. Satisfied that his point had clearly been made, Wilf blew a quiet breath through his nostrils and nodded his head in approval.

"Now, then," he turned his attention to Rose, his tone less severe, "I believe there was something you wanted to discuss."

Her original purpose called to mind, Rose straightened in her chair and focused on her editor.

"Um, yeah," she started, clearing her throat. "Sorry, I mean yes. Last night, when I was at the fire, I met this woman Georgia."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw David fidget ever so slightly in his seat, and could practically feel his eyes roll with recollection. Biting back the sassy retort on her tongue, Rose took a silent breath and began again.

"She didn't live there, but her boyfriend Joshua did. She'd seen the report on Channel 9 about the fire, and rushed over to check on him. Thing was, she couldn't find 'im. In fact, no one could. None of his neighbors knew where he was. Couldn't reach him on his mobile. Nothing."

"No offense, Rose," said Wilf, "but this is sounding like nothing more than a 'missing persons.'"

Just as she had felt the earlier eye roll, Rose could feel the smug smirk tugging on David's lips as Wilf made his statement. This time, she literally bit her tongue to prevent herself from lashing out. If she had any hope of helping Georgia and Karen, Rose would need to avoid angering Wilf again. His cooperation would go a long way in her endeavor.

"I realize that, but just bear with me for a mo'. When I was talkin' with her last night . . . well, she said that something was off with him. That she could tell that he was keeping something from her. I gave her my number and said to call me if she needed anything. Then this morning I got a call when I was down in IT, an- . . ."

"They let you into IT?" David interrupted, turning his furrowed brow in her direction.

The randomness of his question took her slightly of aback, causing her mind to reprocess her last statement. Recovering somewhat quickly, she turned and faced him.

"Umm . . . yeah," Rose drawled, mirroring his expression, "why wouldn't they?"

"They never let me into IT. The blokes down there don't seem to like me much," David pouted, "Always seem irritated when I try talking to them."

"Can't begin to imagine why that is," Rose muttered under her breath, though held back the eye roll that was begging to be let loose.

David heard her muttered sarcasm, and narrowed his eyes in an annoyed glare. The temptation to return his expression was incredibly tantalizing, but Rose remembered that their boss was, unfortunately, still in the room and viewing their interaction intently. Instead, she forced her lips into an overly saccharine smile, batting her eyes innocently. His eyes narrowed all the more, now barely slits, and she could sense that David was itching to retaliate. But then, his eyes briefly flickered to the side, reminding him as well that they were not alone.

Rose saw a muscle in his jaw twitch before he slowly pulled his lips into a taut smile. Seeing his effort and the nearly imperceptible grinding of his teeth, Rose's eyes lighted with mischievous glee.

"Anyway," she began again, turning her attention back to Wilf, "Georgia called me, an' I'll admit, she was rambling a bit and sounded frazzled. But she said that she thought Joshua had been murdered."

"So . . . clearly not a missing persons case. And how'd she reach that conclusion?" Wilf inquired. "Obviously that wasn't the coroner's findings, based on her phone call."

"Well, she wouldn't tell me over the phone, preferred to meet. So I went to her place in the East Village. I talked with her and Joshua's mum Karen. They said the M.E. ruled it a heroin OD. Both of 'em insisted Joshua never did drugs. Didn't so much as even smoke a cigarette. An' before ya start in on me," she pointed her finger at David, halting the words she knew were on his tongue, "I know that people lie, that they keep secrets, especially from their family. But that's not all that they told me.

"Joshua lived in the Lower East Side, but they found 'im in the middle of Washington Heights. As far as they knew, he didn't know anybody near that area, had no reason to be there. He also wasn't some no-account slacker, either. He worked for a major securities firm in Manhattan. Was one of their top analysts. In fact, he'd just gotten a promotion three months back. Corner office, huge salary increase—the works. Basically, he had everythin' going for 'im. Nothing that logically explains why he suddenly ended up in an alleyway behind a bodega with a needle in his arm."

Wilf leaned forward, bracing his elbows against the surface of his desk as he mulled over Rose's account. Granted, there were interesting pieces to the tale, but overall, there wasn't much that warranted closer examination.

"It's a bit weak, Rose," he said finally. "You're relying mainly on this family's perception. That's not always the most reliable source."

"I know, Mr. M- . . ."

"Just 'Wilf,' Rose," her boss interjected. "You're already hired. No need for formalities."

She nodded her head in acknowledgement. "I know it seems like nothin' at first glance, but . . ."

Rose trailed off, searching for the right words. She knew that the Joshua's situation wasn't glaringly wrought with foul play; but at the same time, something instinctual was telling her that there was more to his story than met the eye. Taking a deep silent breath, she tucked her hair behind her ear and scooted towards the edge of her seat.

"I know that it doesn't seem like much, but . . . I can't explain it, but I have this gut feeling that there's somethin' more going on. It just doesn't add up." She could see Wilf continuing to mull over her words, so made one last attempt to win his approval. "All I'm asking for is a few days, just enough time to check it out. If after that you want me to drop it, then I will."

 _At least when I'm here . . . Doesn't mean I'm gonna give up, though . . ._

There were several beats of dead silence as Rose, and by extension David, awaited Wilf's decision. Finally, the older man leaned back in his chair, clearing his throat.

"Alright, Rose," Wilf acquiesced, "I'll give you three days, but no more. If you can't bring me anything more substantial after that, then I'll reassign you something else. We clear?"

A wide, excited smile threatened to overtake her features at Wilf's go-ahead. Quickly, she schooled them into a more contained, professional expression, though her eyes shone with happiness.

"Yes'sir. Thank you," Rose replied, rising to her feet and turning towards the door. She only took a few steps before she suddenly stopped and turned back towards her editor. "Sorry, did ya need me for anythin' else? I didn't mean to just try an' scamper off."

"No, you're fine," he assured her, waving his hand absently in her direction.

The young blonde smilingly nodded at him before casting her eyes toward her newly designated partner. Though his face remained a bit impassive, there was a certain something in his dark brown eyes that caught her notice. Something akin to inquisitiveness, but laced with . . . She didn't know what to call it, but all she knew was that it was . . . strange.

Suddenly realizing that she was blatantly staring at the man, Rose cleared the confusing thoughts creeping into her mind.

"Right, then . . ." she said to no one in particular, promptly turning around and hurrying out of the room.

David watched as Rose scuttled out and closed the door, his eyes following her as if second nature. After a couple beats of staring after her retreated figure, he turned his head back around and faced Wilf, giving him a slight smile.

"Well, then," David started to rise from his seat, "I guess that's my cue t- . . ."

"Sit down, David," Wilf instructed kindly, yet with a firm tone. "There's something that we need to discuss."

Without objection David obeyed, feeling slightly uneasy at the shift in his old friend's demeanor. This wasn't the same attitude he'd just exhibited a few moments ago. No, this was something else altogether.

"What's going on, Wilf?"

For a brief moment, Wilf said nothing, merely blinked at the young man as he reclined in his chair, garnering his thoughts and formulating the best way to proceed. This contemplative silence did nothing to cast aside David's uncertainties.

"Do you remember the first thing I said to you when we met?"

That highly unexpected question caused David to rapidly blink in a double take; but he quickly recovered.

"'Dear God, do you ever shut up?'" David quoted, smirking.

Wilf snorted amusedly at the recollection before softly shaking his head.

"No," he smiled, "after that."

"Ah," David said, smirking just a bit longer before allowing his lips to form a thoughtful smile. "You said, 'Passion like yours is a rare commodity; make sure you don't lose it.'"

Wilf faintly nodded his head several times, focusing his eyes on the aged surface of his desk. Silence descended again, and David felt a small sense of foreboding form within his stomach.

"Seems you didn't take my advice," the older man said, finally lifting his gaze upward.

David's eyes locked with those of his former mentor. His words were like a bucket of ice water, and suddenly David felt cold and drenched. He sat there, staring and immobile, knowing he should say something yet unable to find the words.

"Are you happy here, David?" Wilf leaned forward, his brows furrowed in question. "Is this where you want to be?"

The seemingly random trajectory of Wilf's thoughts was becoming a bit much for David to follow; oddly enough, it was that fact which served as the impetus for his brain to initiate speech.

"Uh," he began pitifully, the words still slow to come, "of course I like working for you. Why would you ask me that, Wilf?"

"That's not exactly what I asked you, is it?" the man replied, a greying brow briefly cocking upward. "I asked if you were happy and wanted to be here. Your answer was vague at best."

"Well, with all due respect, Wilf, your questions are somewhat out of left field," the young columnist countered. "You're mistaking confusion for vagueness."

"Fine," Wilf sighed. "How 'bout this: I'll ask you a direct question, but I expect nothing less than a direct answer. Agreed?"

"Alright," David agreed, that foreboding sensation reemerging, this time from the back of his mind and in full force.

"Why have you been recycling your columns for the last six months?" Wilf asked, his question direct, precise, yet lacking any bitterness or disgust. In actuality, one would have thought that he'd simply asked David for the time. He merely sat in his chair, patiently awaiting an answer.

Releasing a slow, hushed breath, David closed his eyes as the words seeped into him. It was the question he'd hoped never to hear, yet had been subconsciously dreading for the past six months.

"So Paige told you, did she?" he asked quietly, his eyes finally opening to meet his friend's.

Tilting his head to the side, Wilf arched a brow. "I hardly need my granddaughter to let me know what's happening in my house. I've been behind this desk for 15 years, I think it's safe to say I know what I'm doin'."

"I didn't mean- . . ."

"I know, it's fine," the older man waved his hand noncommittally. "That's not what matters. What does matter is your answer."

David wanted to give an answer, truly he did. The fact was, however, that he didn't readily have one to give. Even after Paige had confronted him, he still couldn't explain his actions. He knew there was a reason for his actions, could feel it hovering in the recesses of his mind. Yet, despite its existence, David could not identify it. To say it was frustrating would be a vast understatement.

Though his face betrayed nothing, the disappointment was evident in Wilf's eyes. It pained David to see it. He owed Wilfred Mott so much, had known him for over a decade, and yet he had taken advantage of his goodness.

"I honestly can't give you a reason, Wilf," he replied in earnest. "I wish I could, but I . . ." he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck agitatedly, "I don't readily have one to offer. All I do have is an apology. I'm so sorry, Wilf."

There was a brief pause before the older gentleman released a somewhat weary breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

"Son, all you had to do was be upfront with me. If you didn't want to be here anymore, you just had to say so. I would've understood. Heck, it's not like I expected you to live and die here. You have to do what's right for you."

Wilf paused for a brief moment, making a subtle study of the young man's demeanor. It was evident that David felt ashamed of what he had done; the tension nearly radiated off him, and his eyes were visibly troubled. Wilf had no desire to bash him, to bring him lower to the ground than he was already, but Wilf needed to be open with his surrogate son. It would've been disloyal to do anything less.

"I know things haven't been right for a while, David. Close to a year, in fact. I'm not quite sure what happened, but something changed in you. That passion, that zest for life you once had . . . it's like it disappeared. That's why I agreed to let you try your hand at being a columnist. Thought maybe the change would do you good. And then when you decided to publish your novel . . . I was never prouder," he smiled warmly, that mentioned pride shining in his eyes. "But, son, I can still see that somethin' is missing. You're just . . . you're just not the same. And that concerns me."

The words, although filled with genuine warmth and feeling, still caused David to wince and fidget uncomfortably. Normally, he'd be able to talk up a storm, excuses freely flowing from his lips. Yet, even if he wanted to do that—and David most definitely didn't want to—nothing would come to mind.

Releasing a harsh, frustrated breath, he scrubbed his face, reaching his hand around to furiously rub the back of his neck.

"Wilf, I- . . . I- . . . God, this is so _bloody_ aggravating! I want to explain everything, to give you some valid reason for my behavior; but God help me, Wilf, I just _don't know!_ I've got _nothing!_ An' I wish I did. I know after everything, I at least owe you that."

The last remaining amount of tension in the editor's countenance faded as he closely regarded the young man he'd mentored for over a decade. The man he'd readily come to regarded as his own son. Seeing his genuine earnest, the sheer frustration in his being, Wilf felt the disappointment over David's actions ease. It didn't completely subside, but it became more bearable.

"I appreciate that, David. Really, I do. Y'know I care what happens to you. I only want the absolute best for you. An' if that means you need to leave this place and find yourself, then so be it. I'll respect and fully support that decision."

He paused, allowing his words a brief moment to sink into mind before continuing once more.

"That's one of the reasons I assigned you and Rose to work together; and in case you've forgotten, 'together' means you and her in the same vicinity and working in some semblance of harmony," he grinned as David faintly rolled his eyes at the explanation. "My hope is that working with someone who has a fresh perspective will give you some clarity, some insight into what you truly want. So . . . give it a few weeks—a month at most. After that, lemme know what you've decided. Sound reasonable?"

"More than," David agreed, nodding his head in indication. Though he wasn't exactly thrilled with the prospect of working with the blonde fireball, he understood and appreciated the offer extended to him. He'd already disrespected the man once; he wouldn't be doing it again.

"Alright then," Wilf returned, again offering a small smile. "Better let you get back to it. Don't want to upset your partner, now do ya?"

Suppressing a groan, David forced a tight smile at the statement.

 _Fat chance of her being anythin' **but** upset . . . _

"Can't have that, can we?" he replied, rising to his feet and finally leaving his boss' office to join his new p- . . . his new par- . . .

 _Oh for the love of God, I can't even bring myself to call her **that** in my head . . ._

* * *

"This is not even _remotely_ funny," Rose said evenly, turning her narrowed eyes toward the young woman next to her.

Despite Rose's evident displeasure, Paige couldn't help but beam with delight at the improvements she'd made to the bullpen's layout.

"Wasn't trying to be," she replied, her grin broadening even in the face of Rose's rising irritation. "I think it's perfect. Practical. Convenient. Honestly, I think it's one 'a my best ideas yet."

"That doesn't speak well of your track record, Paige," Rose grumbled, her eyes still focused on the monstrosity before her. Feeling a presence approaching her, she turned her torso enough to see her pa- . . . her par- . . .

 _Lord . . . that's such foul word . . . I feel like I should put a tenner in the swear jar every time it pops in my head . . ._

"What's got you in such a lovely mood?" David inquired sardonically, taking a place between the two young women.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Rose turned her gaze to the tall pest who'd joined them.

"I'm sure you'll be just as happy as I am when I tell you that our adoring friend over there decided to do a bit of rearranging."

A sudden twinge of dread caused him to turn his eyes from the blonde next to him and to where her focus had been previously. His dark eyes nearly fell from their sockets as he realized what had happened.

"Paige . . ." he started slowly, his eyes continuing to be trained forward.

"Yes, David?" she replied brightly.

"W- . . . Why is my desk suddenly over here . . . facing Rose's?"

The spunky teen rolled back slightly on her heels—an impressive feat since she was in 4" stiletto boots.

"Well . . . Since you an' Rose will be working together from now on, I thought that it would make things so much simpler if you were next to each other. Makes sense, yeah?"

Finally breaking their eyes away from the painful image before them, Rose and David simultaneously turned their heads to face their scheming friend, who was still grinning like a complete loon.

Both of them knew that to attempt any sort of protest would be useless. This was now their lot in life, and they might as well begin stomaching the changes.

Silently resigning herself to the new and unwelcomed development, Rose stepped to her desk, grabbing her purse and heading in the direction of the elevators.

"C'mon, Smith," she called over her shoulder, "Let's get this show on the road."

"Brilliant," he rolled his eyes heavenward. "Just bloody brilliant." Seeing Rose wasn't planning to slow down anytime soon, David trotted over to her.

"And just where are we taking this show?" he asked as they reached the elevator, pressing the _Down_ arrow.

"Police precinct," she answered, her eyes focused on the doors. "Gonna talk to the two detectives who handled Joshua's case."

With a nod and click of his tongue, David also turned to face the doors. "Right, then."

The wait dragged on, and Rose pressed the arrow several more times. After a few beats, she moved her gaze to David.

"Are you a wanted man, by any chance?" she inquired, her tone a bit hopeful.

"Well . . ." he drawled, turning a smug grin in her direction, "according to Paige, there's quite a few women on 7 who- . . ."

"Oh for God's sake," Rose groaned, her eyes rolling back in her head. "I'm not talking 'bout your ranking with the office skirts. An' if I were you, I'd seriously look into the validity of those results. I dunno if they're grading on a curve, or whatnot, but it's somethin' to think about."

"Jealous," her partner grinned even broader as he waggled his eyebrows, knowing it would rile her up.

"You wish," she muttered before changing the subject back. "What I meant was do you have warrants out for your arrest, any crimes you're a person of interest in?"

"No such luck, I'm afraid," David muttered in kind, rolling his eyes at her questioning.

"Pity," Rose sighed just as the doors to the elevator finally parted. "I was hoping to kill two birds with one stone."

They both entered the elevator, and David turned to look at her.

"So . . . you and me, huh?"

Rose looked up at him, arching a dark brow. "Yep."

There was a slight pause as he continued to look at her before facing the doors yet again.

"Fan-bloody-tastic."


	8. Another's Perspective

_**AN: I just wanted to say thank you to all who continue to read this story. I truly appreciate the support. If you have time, I'd love to hear your thoughts. But if not, please just enjoy the chapter. Also, the main two characters of this chapter may seem OOC. I'm trying a different twist on them and their dynamic. It may be strange, but it's an idea I'm running with. Thanks again!**_

* * *

"No disrespect, but I gotta say, Di, you're filling out those jeans rather nicely today."

Releasing a small sigh of forbearance, the detective rolled her eyes at her partner's sadly unsurprising antics; though after all their years together, she knew he meant his words as a legitimate compliment and nothing more, even though it was rather unorthodox.

"Wow, Henry," she started, shrugging off her worn, brown leather jacket and settling into her rickety chair, "an actual compliment _and_ you made it all the way to Thursday this time without one single innuendo. A small part of me thinks I should be proud about that."

"Wasn't easy," he replied in all seriousness. "I nearly slipped up when we questioned that bartender on Monday. Y'know, the one with the skull tattoo right between her b- . . ."

"I remember," the female detective halted his description, one he was sure to elaborate on if she hadn't spoken up. "And yeah, you showed remarkable restraint with the lovely skank."

"You mean suspect," Henry countered, smirking at the redhead. He could tell she was becoming increasingly irritable, and he'd definitely be lying if he denied it amused him greatly. But, to be honest, if asked, he wouldn't bother denying it.

One of Diana's eyebrows slowly arched as she regarded him evenly. "Pretty sure they're synonymous in this case. Five minutes around her and I was convinced I'd inhaled some sort of venereal disease."

"Oh, c'mon," he rolled his eyes at her assessment. "You just don't know how to have a good time. You know, with as tightly wound as you are sometimes, you could make a fortune in diamonds."

Diana merely shook her head at the familiar charge, causing her mass of strawberry blonde curls to skim against her cheeks. "I'm not having this discussion again, van Statten," she grumbled, quickly and irritably tying back the unruly locks. "And you better rein it in, 'cause I got zero sleep last night and I'm feeling real trigger happy."

On the use of his last name, Henry squirmed in his seat, scratching at his mustache a tad nervously. It was never a good sign when his partner switched from his given name.

"So," he coughed lightly, clearing the trepidation that was forming, "how come you had such a bad night?" While he wasn't completely invested in getting a response, Henry hoped the subject change would serve as an effective distraction and possibly put her on a path to a better mood.

Diana opened her desk drawer, quickly pulling out a massive bottle of Excedrin Migraine and popping more than the recommended dosage. "You try moving everythin' you own across two boroughs by taxi because the godforsaken movers you hired decided not to show up," was the slightly growled reply. "Oh, and FYI, cabbies don't care if you've got the trunk loaded with brand-new glassware. They're still gonna slam on the friggin' brakes if some moron decides to jaywalk."

Henry snorted amusedly, which was met by a sideways glare from his still simmering partner. Though the temptation to keep poking at her was great, he refrained from doing so, knowing that it was time to back off. Releasing a rather dramatic breath, Henry rose from his seat.

"Well, the crappy coffee is calling me. Think I'll get a cup. Maybe I'll come back after your drugs 've kicked in."

Even as she narrowly glared at her partner's retreating figure, Diana couldn't help the faint upward turn of her lips as she reluctantly found the humor in his words. Taking a sip of her home-brought, high-quality brew, Diana shook her head in begrudging fondness. Henry van Statten was, by far, one of the most aggravating men she'd ever encountered in her life. However, their relationship had made leaps and bounds from its origination. A good thing, too, because, looking back, if things hadn't changed, Diana was certain she'd be serving at least 25-to-life for murder.

* * *

 _Five years prior . . ._

Sergeant Morrissey's door swung wide open, raucously thudding against the arm of the nearby chair, and heralding the arrival of an increasingly livid Diana Goddard.

"Please explain to me why I'm suddenly stuck with Sleaze-Ball of the Year. Just who exactly did I severely piss off to get _that_ privilege?"

"C'mon, Di, it's not like that. Y'know this has nothin' to do with you."

"No, I _really_ don't know that!" Diana countered hotly, her nostrils flaring. "I'm busting my tail-end 'round here, always pickin' up the slack, never once complaining; and instead of a 'hey, good job,' I get partnered with the NYPD's leading lecher. Explain to me how that's not supposed to be taken personally!"

"Watch it!" her superior warned, his jaw setting in anger. "I get you're angry, but remember your rank, Detective."

"I didn't ask to be transferred here," Diana charged onward, too angry to care about insubordination. "The _only_ reason I'm here is because Danny asked me to do him a favor for _you_! And after everything he's done for me over the years, it was the least I could do. So I do it, and what happens? I get royally screwed over!"

Her commanding officer was on his feet in an instant, his shoulders hunched, hands locked onto his desk. "You've got two seconds to sit down and shut up before I take your shield! Got it?"

The fire in her eyes never diminished, but reason whispered in her ear and she obeyed.

"Who do y'think suggested you?" the sergeant challenged. "Danny was the one who brought up your name. He heard 'bout van Statten's transfer. Called me up. Said that if anyone in this precinct could handle him, it'd be you. Call me crazy, but when your former training and commanding officer tells me that you're the best person for the job, I'm inclined to believe him. Unless _you_ think you're not cut out for it."

Morrissey was goading her; Diana knew that. He was challenging her capability, knowing that it would strike a nerve in the fiercely dedicated detective. She knew this, but it didn't stop her from taking the bait. She was not one to back down.

"Never said I couldn't handle it," she replied, her tone tinted with biting precision. "But what do you expect me to do? Cure 'im? Hate to break it to ya, but I'm not a miracle worker."

"No, but you're a smart woman," her sergeant smirked. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

There was nothing more to say on the subject, nothing more that her sergeant would hear, so Diana was left with no other recourse but to stomach his decision. Week after week passed with the young detective gnashing her teeth in barely contained ire while her partner, Henry van Statten, made one sexist and inappropriate comment after another. With each one uttered, Diana felt her resolve and patience slipping through her fingers. Until one day, she didn't bother holding onto them anymore.

She simply let go.

Some two months after their partnership began, the at-odds detectives found themselves at an abandoned dock along the East River following up on a tip from a newly acquired informant. It was only a few hours into their tour and Diana's patience was hanging on by a fraying string. Needing to have some sort of physical distance between them, she quickened her pace just a bit, keeping a couple feet ahead of him.

"Man, Diana," Henry started in, whistling lowly before continuing, "it's a shame that with a figure like that you don't dress it up. What with those legs and that gorgeous- . . ."

The word had barely left his lips before Diana whirled around, her gun unholstered and pointed directly at the exceedingly astonished man.

"You were saying?" she challenged questioningly, her voice pure steel, her eyes trained intently on her target.

For a moment, van Statten was mute, completely shocked by her sudden action. Diana could see when the wheels started to slowly turn in his underdeveloped mind, and felt a twist of hot anger when his face shifted into a slow, wide smirk.

"Oh, sweetheart, do you really expect me to believe that you're actually gonna shoot me?"

The Glock in her hand remained firmly in place, her aim never wavering. Her eyes narrowed, the earlier steel in her words now filling those piercing orbs.

"For two months, I have listened to you make every friggin' innuendo known to man. Listened to your commentary on every chick that passes your eye-line. On the fact that I'm assigned lead. On anything and everything your Neanderthal mind can conjure up. And I am _done_."

A raised eyebrow joined the cocky smirk on her partner's face. "Really, now?" he challenged. "C'mon . . . Can't you just take it as a compliment when I tell ya ya got a nice p- . . ."

Shifting her aim barely an inch, Diana expertly fired a shot over his shoulder, causing him to jump and dart to the side.

"Are you freaking nuts?" he shouted in fear and anger. "You just shot at me!"

"I warned you, van Statten," she countered evenly as she trained her weapon back on him, not even remotely fazed by her actions. "I come from three generations of cops, so believe me when I say I know what I'm doin'. And next time, I won't miss."

"Oh yeah?" He stepped forward hotly. "Well, looks like the family tradition's ending 'cause after Internal Affairs hears about this, you'll be out on your rear! Then all you'll really have to fall back on are those _assets_ you're so uptight about."

Now it was Diana's turn to smirk. "You're not gonna tell IA anything."

"Ha!" van Statten snorted. "What makes you so sure?"

"'Cause I did some digging on you. Too many of those 'compliments' put you in real hot water. You're about one bad report away from losing your shield. So, if you wanna keep it, I suggest you learn to dial it back on the street and knock it off with me. 'Cause lemme tell ya something, van Statten-one of us is gonna break, and it won't be _me_!"

The cocky smirk that once had hold over his features slowly faded. "That's blackmail."

"No, it's one last chance. And if you value the job, then you'll take it."

Their gazes remained locked, each one appraising the other. Diana arched a brow questioningly.

"So . . . what's it gonna be?"

Much to their mutual surprise, van Statten took the proffered ultimatum. The weeks that followed were filled with near excruciating tension, both individuals simply tolerating each other's presence. There were times were it was nearly unbearable, times where Diana's trigger finger itched and she would seriously reconsider her stance on leniency.

However, after two more months, several alterations to their partnership began to manifest themselves. Van Statten started to become more obliging, working _with_ Diana as opposed to his original begrudging and obstinate behavior. This change made her somewhat uneasy, and she couldn't help but wonder if there was some ulterior motive at work. That is until van Statten did something that put those wonderings to rest.

* * *

 _Five Months Into the Madness . . ._

Diana couldn't control the gruff, irritated mumbling under her breath as she marched down the stairs and into holding. As she rounded the corner, she saw the source of her ire sitting in the cell, leaning against the concrete wall, and nursing an ice pack to his swelling, blackened right eye.

Shaking her head and mumbling another round of oaths and curses, Diana fully entered the space, resting her back against the wall opposite him, folding her arms across her chest and staring down the ridiculousness that was her partner. They blanked each other for several moments before Henry broke the silence.

"Can I help you?"

"You're a Grade-A idiot, y'know that, van Statten?" she huffed in aggravation.

"So I've heard from both you and my ex-wife . . . multiple times," he replied, shifting the pack against his face. "Although she tended to use more forceful terms of endearment."

"What the heck were you thinking? Did you honestly think it was a good idea to slug Iannetti in the middle of the locker room? At least when I pulled my gun on you we were alone."

Henry shifted his body side to side, as if trying to get more comfortable. "Yeah, well, Iannetti's had it coming for a while. I'm just the lucky guy who got to do it."

"I still don't even get why you did it!" Diana countered irritably, annoyed with his rather nonchalant attitude. "I mean, seriously . . . I've known you to do some pretty boneheaded things, but this? What could he possibly have done that made you decide to break his nose?"

Diana saw something alter in van Statten's demeanor as she finished her rant, something she hadn't before seen in him. There was a slight hardening of his gaze as he lowered the ice pack from his face and leaned forward.

"That stupid pipsqueak was running his mouth about the Vargas case. About you going to the ADA with what you found. Said that Vargas walked because you just couldn't shut your mouth and do your job. That if you weren't so busy sucking up to the brass then you might actually be worth something. Then he made several other choice comments that even _I_ wouldn't say. He wouldn't shut up on his own, so I took the liberty of doing it for him. He's lucky his nose is the only thing I broke."

The young detective could barely comprehend what was just told to her, especially considering the source.

"W- . . ." Diana started hesitantly, coming to an unexpected conclusion. "Why do you care what was said?"

Van Statten blinked for a silent moment before leaning back against the wall. "You're my partner. What else was I gonna do?"

It was a simple enough reply, but it held significant weight, an unspoken understanding.

"So . . ." she cleared her throat, "I hear Morrissey gave ya two weeks suspension."

He sighed, returning the melting ice pack to his eye. â€œI prefer to think of it as 'mandated time off.' Sounds better."

Softly snorting, Diana shook her head, a faint grin tugging at her lips. "Whatever helps, I guess. I'll see you in two weeks, Henry," she said, pushing off the wall and turning to leave.

"So I'm 'Henry' now, huh?" he called out, causing Diana to stop and face him, a small smile on her lips.

"Only when you're good."

* * *

From that point onward, the two worked well together, even developing a solid, albeit unconventional, partnership. No mistaking, Henry van Statten could still be incredibly obnoxious and an infuriating flirt to the female public at large; however, when it came to Diana, that was no longer the case. There was mutuality between them; he had her back, and she had his. It was a fact that had been proven extensively over the years. And as Diana watched her partner hasten towards her, she realized it was about to again, though this time to a smaller degree.

"Brace yourself," he muttered, plopping down onto his chair. "He's on the warpath."

Arching a dark brow, she turned her head just in time to see their sergeant stomp out of his office and make a beeline for their desks, clearly in a less than cheerful mood.

"Oh crap," Diana grumbled lowly, leaning back in her seat.

"You two," Morrissey snapped, "you do realize that your job is to actually close cases, not collect them like friggin' baseball cards, right?"

"What's the problem, Sarge?" Henry questioned, taking a long, rather exaggerated sip from his cup.

"You've got four open cases, and I haven't heard about an ounce of progress on any of them. Do you understand the source of my frustration now? Or do you want me to dumb it down further for you?"

Choosing to be unruffled by their increasingly irritable CO, Henry merely rolled his eyes before taking another swig of the precinct's swill.

"Alright, Sarge," Diana took over, "here's how it is. We traced the Escalade from the drive-by back to a chop shop outside Queens. CSU can't find anything in the vehicle, so a few uniforms are canvassing the area to see if anyone saw anything. We got a witness in the Santiago homicide who picked out a local banger out of a lineup, so the DA's got that one. And then Henry's got a CI who gave a us a name of one of Denko's suppliers, but the DEA put the brakes on things. We think they got a guy on the inside and that's why they're stonewalling, but they aren't sharing. We're workin' on it, though."

"That's only three," Morrissey grumbled. "What about the other one? The one in Washington Heights?"

"Looks like an OD," Henry answered. "Won't know officially until we get the ME's report."

"And what's the holdup with that?"

Henry shrugged in response. "Not sure. We've called for it several times. Nothing yet."

"And what, your legs suddenly quit working?" the sergeant questioned, his irritation still evident.

"I take it you want us to go down there and get it?" Diana leaned back in her chair, sighing.

"The depth of your deductive reasoning is staggering," Morrissey smarted, turning on his heel and storming back to his office.

The two detectives watched after him a moment before turning to face each other. Diana blew out a harsh breath through her nose as she rose to her feet, Henry standing as well.

"Sweet lord . . . you weren't kidding, were ya?" she muttered to her partner, pushing the _Down_ arrow on the elevator. "Nothing starts the morning off right like gettin' your head ripped off."

"Eh," her partner shrugged, entering the elevator as the battered doors parted. "Try looking on the bright side."

"Which is?"

"Oh I have no idea," he replied rather nonchalantly, pressing _Ground_. "I was just suggesting you find one."

Rolling her eyes heavenward and praying for patience, Diana shook her head, a few loose tendrils grazing her forehead.

"You're an idiot."

Henry merely looked over at her and smirked.

"I don't understand what the holdup is with Connolly," Diana said to her partner as they navigated the halls of the Medical Examiners Office. "He's usually on the ball with stuff like this."

"Connolly's not with the ME's anymore. He retired."

"What?" The redhead halted in her tracks. "Since when?"

Henry stopped and turned back towards her. "Since two weeks ago. It was right around the time you were on vacation."

"Va- . . . Vacation? Ya mean when my appendix burst and I had to have emergency surgery? That the vacation you talkin' about?" Diana grumbled.

"Eh," Henry shrugged and smirked amusedly, "I prefer to think of it as 'mandated time off.'"

"Yeah, well, when you have a tube down your nose and random people waking you up every hour and seeing you in your altogether, then you can call it whatever you want. Me, I'll just stick to calling it Hell."

"Sounds like how I spent most of college," Henry replied with a fond, faraway look in his eye.

"Wow," the redhead shook her head, resuming her trek, "there are some things I _really_ wish I didn't know about you."

Snorting in frank amusement, Henry followed after his partner. He would never get tired of riling her up. It was incredibly entertaining.

"So," she started as they neared the designated door, "who'd they get to replace him? I'm assuming they replaced him already."

"Not sure if they did. All I know is that it's one of the midlevel staffers handling the autopsy. Don't remember the name right offhand. I haven't had to deal with him yet. I hear he's not half-bad, but apparently he's a real pill."

"Well," the young detective sighed, "let's find out, shall we?"

Nodding, he followed after her as she pushed open the door, the frigid air instantly assaulting the exposed parts of their flesh. As they entered, they were immediately met with the sight of a dark haired man returning a body to the fridge and promptly closing the cabinet. Apparently hearing their arrival, the man turned around to see who had entered.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm Detective Goddard and this is my partner Detective van Statten. We're looking for the ME who did the autopsy on Joshua Daniels."

"That'd be me," the man walked over to them, removing the nitrile exam gloves and extending his hand towards Diana. "I'm Adam Mitchell."

There was a slight hesitancy before she relented and shook the young doctor's hand. However, she instantly regretted her decision as the man slowly raked his eyes appraisingly and appreciatively over her body. And it wasn't just Diana who noticed the behavior.

"Hey," Henry barked, "eyes above the neck, One Direction."

Flickering his eyes towards the voice, Adam finally acknowledged the male detective's presence. His formerly leering gaze altered as he met the man's eyes, immediately registering the protectiveness in them. Despite the intense look, Adam couldn't help by flash a cocky grin.

"Sorry. It's just not every day that such a beautiful and captivating woman walks into my morgue."

His tone was smooth and lined with charm, clearly second nature to him. If she'd been just another airhead, Diana would no doubt have been a goner. But Diana was most definitely _not_ some airhead or some cutesy coed content to twirl her hair and salivate over a mediocrely attractive male. Even without her adept detective skills, she was rather good at reading people, and she instantly knew this Adam Mitchell was a real piece of work.

"So, the Daniels autopsy is where?" Diana questioned, ignoring his supposed compliment. "Your office neglected to send it over."

"Right, Joshua Daniels . . ." Adam walked over to a far set of file cabinets and opened one of the drawers. After rummaging through it for a brief moment, he pulled out a file and flipped through the contents. "Oh yeah . . . the guy found in Washington Heights. Autopsy confirmed the initial suspicion of overdose. Tox screen turned up a crazy amount of heroin."

"'Crazy amount'?" Henry scoffed. "That the technical term for it?"

Cocking an eyebrow at the older man, Adam smirked condescendingly. "Not exactly, but I didn't want to confuse you with big words."

Sensing her partner's reaction, Diana backhanded his chest, halting his movement towards the cocky medical examiner.

"So that's it?" she redirected. "Nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary?"

"Not a thing, just your run of the mill OD. It's a shame what people will throw their life away on," Adam sighed, shaking his head. "His family was devastated. It was so sad to see."

"It's never easy to lose someone you love," acknowledged Diana. "Well, if you could give us a copy of the report, then we'll be on our way."

"Sure thing, Detective," Adam nodded, stepping out to retrieve a copy for them.

Once the two were alone, Henry faced his partner, his features wrought with aggravation. "Well, he's delightful."

"Tell me about it," the redhead agreed. "Oh, and by the way-One Direction? That's a new one."

"Yeah, well, it seemed to suit him."

Diana couldn't help but chuckle at the many thoughts that comparison conjured.

"So this was easy enough," Henry said. "Simple OD. Open and shut, yeah?"

"Yeah," Diana agreed. "Guess it is."


End file.
